


Chasing Ghosts

by BigGayRobot



Category: Legend of the Seeker, Sword of Truth
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Berdine needs therapy, Blood, Body Dysphoria, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Character Study, Discussion of Death, Discussion of Hate Crimes, Discussion of sexual assault, During Canon, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fix-It, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic descriptions of violence, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized grief, No Lesbians Die, No gays buried here, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Richard needs an ass kicking, Scars, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tender Sex, alcohol use, because they're afraid they're reading too far into their banter, bend at the knees for sex, discussions of religion, it’s about the Yearning, mentions of abuse, not smut, two lesbians sitting in a library 5 feet apart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigGayRobot/pseuds/BigGayRobot
Summary: It’s been a little over a year since Raina died, and Berdine has been throwing herself into her work to ignore the pain. A series of choices and decisions lead her to connect with an unlikely confidant, and in the process, learn to move past her grief and live again.Please read and heed the tags for trigger and content warnings. Tags will be updated as chapters are drafted and posted.
Relationships: Berdine/OC, Kahlan Amnell/Richard Cypher
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	1. A Wager Made

If anyone had asked Berdine how she ended up in a hole-in-the-wall tavern with two other Mord-Sith, nursing a mug of bitter ale that was growing warmer by the minute, she wouldn’t have had an answer. Rikka had come to her in the library, interrupting her translations of a particularly dry journal entry, inviting her out. She hadn’t wanted to go, she preferred her quiet, studious work to the loud din of taverns and ale houses. But Rikka had pleaded with sad eyes that tugged just enough at Berdine’s heart that she relented.

It wasn’t a _terrible_ tavern. The floors and long tables were clean, and the wall lamps lit the interior with a warm, somewhat inviting glow. But the main hall was cramped, tables and chairs pushed flush against the walls, forcing the three Mord-Sith to sit facing the empty center of the room, leaning back against their private table in a somewhat dimmer corner. The barman, a swarthy fellow who greeted them with hard-set eyes and a curt nod, had let them know that tonight’s entertainment was a prize fight. Locals and travelers would bareknuckle box in single elimination rounds for a modest purse. Berdine thought it sounded like a stupid idea, but Rikka and the others were almost excited.

“Who do you think is going to fight tonight?” Rikka asked Berdine, leaning closer to be heard over the chatter, eyes scanning the men and women milling about the edges of the room.

“I don’t know,” Berdine responded, taking a small sip of her now very warm, very flat ale. “And I’m sure I don’t care.”

“You are absolutely no fun at all.” Rikka said with a short bark of a laugh. “I would have left you with your books if I’d known you would be this sour!”

“You probably should have.”

“Don’t be like that,” Cara said, leaning over Rikka to playfully shove Berdine’s knee. “You’ve been holed up in there since—“

Cara cut herself off as Berdine set her jaw and stared ahead at nothing in particular, jaw muscles working as she held back tears.

“We aren’t saying to forget her,” Cara continued, softness and understanding seeping into her words. “But you have a life to live, and she wouldn’t want you to let it pass you by.”

It had been over a year since Raina had died, laughing, in Lord Rahl’s arms; sun beaming down on them in a cruel mockery of Berdine’s anguish. She still had mornings where she reached out for Raina, half asleep, before she remembered. Still had nights where she cried herself to sleep, curled into a tight ball on Raina’s side of the bed.

Berdine continued to blankly stare ahead as she took a deep swing of her ale, grimacing at the bitter, piney taste. They were right. But she didn’t want them to be.

“At least stay for one fight,” Rikka pleaded, gesturing to the pair of men scattering a mixture of sand and sawdust on the floor in preparation for the night’s events. “If nobody is worth betting on, we’ll leave.”

Berdine considered her reflection in her ale for a long moment before heaving a resigned sigh.

“Fine,” she said, it bit more curtly than she had intended. “One fight.”

Cara and Rikka both beamed and playfully shoved her knee and shoulder as she downed the rest of her ale and signaled to a server for a refill.

_Spirits, what am I doing here?_

The barman had come to stand in the center of the cleared space, banging a ladle on a pot lid to call for quiet and attention.

“Welcome!” He shouted, throwing his arms wide and rotating to address the entire room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last chance to make bets on the first round of fighters.”

He paused for a moment as servers quickly took names and coin from a few patrons, scribbling on skates with chalk.

“Now!” He continued, gesturing to the crowd. “For returning patrons, you know what to do. For newcomers, the rules are simple: rounds are between the two fighters _only_. No tagging in if your friend can’t finish the job. And no interfering with the fighters or referee, or you’ll be thrown out. Rounds are over when a fighter is knocked out or signals concession. Winner of the round fights the next on the list until none are left. Tonight’s winner will leave with a purse, and will take on volunteer challengers for extra coin.”

Patrons murmured and nodded along with the explanation, some of the younger men grinning and nudging each other, daring friends to challenge the night’s champion. Barmaids set up short stools and water buckets on either side of the makeshift fighting ring for the challengers to rest on and clean wounds with.

“First round will be between Bartram Harlow,” the barman shouted, gesturing to a wiry man of about 25 summers with dirty brown hair. “And our current champion...Sledge!”

A cheer raced through the crowed as a second figure stepped into the ring and sat on a stool to remove their boots.

As they stood to remove their shirts, Berdine choked, spitting out her ale.

Sledge was a woman, about Berdine’s age, who stood a head taller than her opponent, dressed in dark green trousers that hugged legs like tree trunks and had her chest bound. She ran a hand through close-cropped, honey blonde hair, and gave a lopsided grin to someone on the edge of the ring, laughing at something Berdine couldn’t hear.

Berdine felt her face burn as her eyes raked over the woman’s heavily muscled torso, crisscrossed with scars. She swallowed thickly as Sledge bounced from one foot to the other, swinging sculpted arms and rolling her broad shoulders to warm up before the bout. She quickly tried, and failed, to hide her flushed face in her ale mug.

Cara and Rikka didn’t say anything to her, but exchanged knowing looks with one another.

“I think we’ll be staying for more than one fight,” Cara murmured to Rikka, mirth dancing in her blue eyes.

Sledge and Bartram stood in the center of the ring, Sledge facing her opponent and Bartram looking anywhere _but_ her. Bartram looked annoyed, hands gesturing harshly at Sledge as he spoke animatedly to the barman, who promptly clapped a hand to the back of the young man’s neck, turning him to face his opponent.

“You know the rules,” the barman said loudly. “No weapons, no tagging-in seconds, and no fighting dirty.”

Sledge held out her hand, which Bartram reluctantly took, shaking once before dropping into a loose, easy stance that spoke of experience and starting to circle the other fighter, looking for an opening. Bartram raised white-knuckled fists, feet moving stiffly as he circled as well.

He suddenly lunged, throwing a left hook that Sledge easily dodged, dancing inside his reach to deliver two quick jabs to his right side before springing back. Bartram winced and cried out in both pain and surprise, dropping his hands to belatedly protect his stomach. That’s when Sledge struck, connecting a wicked uppercut with a sickening crunching sound that Berdine felt as well as heard. Bartram fell to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

His friends rushed forward into the ring as the barman called the round, collecting their unconscious friend who was bleeding profusely from a split chin. Sledge sat on her stool, taking a cup from a server and drinking deeply before handing it back.

“Oh, that poor boy didn’t stand a chance,” Cara said, laughing and taking a sip of her ale.

Rikka nodded her agreement before turning to Berdine.

“What do you think,” Rikka asked with all the innocence of a fox caught in a hen house. “She worth betting on?”

Berdine’s ears blazed red as she took a sip from her own mug, pointedly not meeting Rikka’s teasing gaze. A part of her felt guilty for blatantly staring at a strange woman, almost like it was a betrayal to Raina’s memory.

 _But_ , she thought, ignoring Cara and Rikka’s amused laughter. _There’s no harm in just looking._

The night and fights wore on, Sledge besting each new opponent; some more easily than others. The last, a burly, bald man with a thick, black beard managed to land a fair few vicious hits to Sledge’s stomach and face, splitting her lip and eyebrow, causing angry red welts to bloom across taught abdominal muscles. But in the end, Sledge managed to get inside his guard, landing blow after blow to his head until he fell limply to the floor.

The barman held her fist aloft, declaring her the night’s winner as she spat not a small amount of blood into the sawdust before plopping heavily into her stool and signaling for cloth to staunch her bleeding.

As promised, the ring opened up for random challengers willing to pay a silver, added to the winner’s purse, to take on the champion. Almost all were turned away for being much too drunk, but those who seemed sober enough to fight were quickly subdued or tapped out.

Rikka slapped Berdine’s arm.

“You should challenge her,” she said with a teasing grin. “You’ve been studying her _fighting form_ all night. Should be an easy win.”

Berdine shook her head, cheeks burning with embarrassment despite the thrill that ran down her spine to settle in her stomach.

“Well if you don’t,” Rikka said, standing and removing her agiel from her wrist before handing it to Cara. “I will.”

“Be my guest,” Berdine said, knowing she didn’t sound half as disinterested as she hoped.

“Who knows,” Rikka said over her shoulder as she advanced on the ring. “Maybe she’ll take me home to practice on.”

Berdine’s breath hitched as her thoughts ran wild and Rikka’s self-satisfied laugh stung more than it should have.

A hush fell over the tavern as Rikka stepped into the ring and approached the barman, pressing a silver coin into his meaty hand.

“My turn,” she said, shifting her weight into a nonchalant stance.

The barman looked back at Sledge, who stood, tossing aside the blood-soaked rag as she made her way to Rikka.

“Mord-Sith,” Sledge said, stopping a little more than arm’s length away. Her voice was warmer than Rikka had expected, with a low timbre that might have been attractive if she had liked women. “Looking to break, or be broken?”

Sledge’s expression remained neutral, but her words cut deep. With the new Lord Rahl, the Mord-Sith no longer took girls for breaking and training, but reputation ran deep.

“Let’s call it...a test,” Rikka said, looking back at Berdine and then to Sledge.

Sledge frowned and nodded thoughtfully, considering the proposal.

“If it’s a test you want, I’ll do you one better,” Sledge said after a moment, hazel eyes hardening. “I bet my purse that I can disarm you without knocking you out before you can touch me with your agiel.”

The barman spluttered a weak protest before Sledge cut him off with a dismissive wave.

“What say you?” Sledge asked, holding out a large, calloused and bruised hand.

“What do you get if you win?” Rikka asked pointedly.

“Your agiel.”

Rikka’s eyes widened in shock as she took a small step back, looking to her Sisters for support as the tavern erupted into low murmurs and whispers.

“I can’t offer that,” Rikka said, finally.

“Then we have no test,” Sledge said, turning on her heel to go back to her stool.

“Wait!”

 _Spirits_ , Rikka thought, cursing her tongue for acting before her brain.

Sledge stopped, squaring her shoulders and flexing her hands.

“My agiel if you win,” Rikka said, licking her lips. “But what if I win? What do I get?”

Sledge gave a half shrug.

“Name it, and you’ll have it.”

Rikka’s mind raced. She couldn’t risk losing her agiel, but she also couldn’t back down from a challenge that she started.

“You.”

Sledge whipped around, eyes wide and searching Rikka’s face for...something before closing the distance between them with long, purposeful strides.

"What do you want with me?" Sledge asked, suspicion clear on her face.

"You'll just have to find out," Rikka said with a wolfish smile.

Sledge knit her brows together in clear annoyance, tilting her head from side to side making her neck pop loudly. She roughly slapped her hand into Rikka's with a grip hard enough to make her wince, harshly shaking it once before all but throwing it away, looking in the direction of the other Mord-Sith. She locked eyes with Berdine, who felt her chest tighten and a spike of heat stab and pool in her lower abdomen.

Rikka trotted back over to Cara to retrieve her agiel and fill her Sisters in on the terms of the fight; well, part of them anyway.

For the second time that night, Berdine choked on her ale.

“What?!” She gasped once her coughing fit had passed. “Why would you do that?”

“Number one, I’m not going to lose,” Rikka said, rolling her agiel between her palms. “And number two: I'm not going to lose.”

A wicked grin spread across Rikka’s face as Berdine colored from hair to collar.

“I promise not to play too rough with her,” Rikka said with a laugh and a wink before jogging back to the fighting ring.

Berdine looked back at Sledge who was regarding her with a look she didn’t quite know how to read. It wasn’t interest, not really.

The barman cut through the air between Rikka and Sledge with his hand, signaling the start of the round. It was a fight that unfolded slowly at first, both women circling each other, watching, waiting for openings. Sledge swung a fist wide, testing Rikka’s defense, but was easily slapped away. Rikka then jabbed half heartedly at Sledge’s chest, causing her to leap back as though she had been shot.

And so it went for rounds that stretched on and on. The tavern was quiet except the sound of creaking leather and labored breathing as both women tried to gain the upper hand. Sledge managed to strike Rikka’s wrist, the crowd giving a collective gasp as the Mord-Sith barely managed to keep hold of her agiel. Sledge then struck Rikka in the side, driving the breath from her lungs, before dropping her shoulder to make a mighty lunge at her opponent. Regaining her breath, Rikka stepped back at just the right moment, causing Sledge to overextend her reach, throwing herself off balance. As Sledge stumbled past, Rikka brought her agiel down between her shoulders, willing it give no more than a mild sting.

Sledge arched her back away from the agiel, crying out more in surprise and anger at losing than in pain before falling heavily to the floor and slamming clenched fists into the wide planks.

No one cheered, but a fair few patrons nodded respectfully at Rikka as the barman handed her the winner’s purse, jaw set. She hefted her agiel in her hand before dropping it, letting it dangle by her wrist and offering her hand to Sledge.

After a tense few seconds, Sledge took it, pulling herself up off the floor.

“You fought well,” Rikka said, holding out the coin purse.

“A bet is a bet,” Sledge said, gently pushing it back. “I honor my debts.”

“Consider or payment, then,” Rikka said, slapping the purse in Sledge’s hand.

“For what?”

“Giving the library staff a good night’s sleep for once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be periodically tweaking dialogue and prose in between chapter uploads. Nothing major, just fixing flow, typos, and other little things since this isn't really being beta read. If you notice a problem or typo, please let me know in a comment so I can correct it.


	2. Keeper's Own Luck

Sledge gave Rikka an open-mouth, incredulous stare for a brief moment before slamming her jaw shut with a click of her teeth and shaking her head.

“What the fuck does that mean?” She asked harshly, hot on Rikka’s heels as the two made their way back to where Cara and Berdine were sitting.

Rikka ignored the question, making a point of adjusting her brown leather gloves and flexing her fingers. She gave Sledge a sidelong glance before turning to Berdine.

“No!” Sledge shouted, causing a few other tavern patrons to look toward the odd group. “More-Sith or not, I asked you a question, and I want an answer, gods damn you!”

Cara was to her feet in an instant, agiel appearing in her hand seemingly out of nowhere, ready to fight. Berdine tried, and failed to keep her face neutral, torn between her Sisters and her...whatever this feeling was. A small part of Berdine had been hoping Sledge would best Rikka. Not only would it have humbled her Sister, but...she didn't know what else she had hoped. Rikka had told them that she had bet her agiel on her victory, but she had been tight-lipped about what her opponent had offered in return, opting to play coy, much to Berdine and Cara's chagrin.

Sledge drew herself up to her full height, crossing her heavily muscled arms over her bound chest, squaring her shoulders. Her green-grey eyes turned hard. Standing almost head and shoulders taller than Rikka and Cara both, Sledge cut an intimidating figure, but if it came to a fight, Berdine knew who would be the victors.

Rikka put a hand to Cara’s chest, signaling her to stand down, as another wicked grin spread across her face like poisoned honey.

“I would but,” Rikka gave an apologetic shrug. “That’s not for me to say.”

“You made the bet!” Sledge shouted, throwing her arms wide before dropping them to her side. “What the fuck do you want from me?!”

Before anyone could answer, Sledge opened the leather pouch she was still clutching and dug around, pulling out a silver coin.

“You know what, take your fucking silver,” she growled, violently throwing the coin to the floor. “Fuck your bet, and fuck you. I’ll not be a pawn for a death mistress.”

Sledge spun on her heel and stalked off towards the bar, pushing her way through curious onlookers and drunken patrons.

“We’ve killed men for less,” Cara growled, gripping her agiel, leather glove creaking in protest.

“This is true,” Rikka said, picking up the silver coin and putting it in the small coin purse dangling from her hip. “But she has a point.”

“What was your end of the bet?” Berdine asked, keeping her eyes trained on Sledge’s head as she made her way to the back corner of the tavern.

Rikka sucked her teeth before sitting next to Berdine.

“Well...”

* * * *

Sledge seethed with anger as she sat heavily on a stool at the end of the bar, hands flexing into fists over and over. A short, slender woman with dark hair and dark eyes gave her a quick nod, setting a mug of ale down for another customer before making her way over.

“Your new friends not want you to play anymore?” the woman asked with a smirk.

Sledge’s nostrils flared and jaw muscles worked as she blew an angry huff and ground her teeth.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she growled, placing a few copper and silver coins on the bar. “Just give me a bottle of something strong.”

“A bottle?” the other woman said, eyebrows raising. “They must have really pissed you off.”

“There may be a new Rahl,” Sledge said through gritted teeth. “But the Mord-Sith are still the same. They think they can walk into a place, snap their fingers, and make everyone their toy.”

“You’d better keep it down,” Cass warned, setting a bottle of white whiskey and a shot glass on the bar.

“What are they going to do?” Sledge asked, popping the cork out of the bottle and pouring a drink. “Kill me?”

“Cara might,” Berdine said, sliding easily onto the stool next to Sledge. “We’re trying to talk her out of it though.”

Sledge paused, shot glass halfway to her lips. Her brows knit together in annoyance as she exchanged a wary glance with Cass.

“I take it you’re Library Staff,” she said, tossing back her liquor, grimacing at the acrid burn.

Berdine’s eyes went wide as her face burned with embarrassment. She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying and failing to form a response.

“I guess that’s a ‘yes,’” Sledge said, pouring another shot, idly spinning the tiny glass once it was full. After a long moment, she gave half a shrug.

She had stood up from her stool, reaching over and behind the bar to pick up a second shot glass.

“I would have handed it to you,” Cass called from the other end of the bar where she was serving other patrons.

Sledge gave a dismissive wave as she poured a second shot, sliding it over to Berdine and holding her own up for a toast.

“ _Zu Drauka_ ,” she said, clinking her glass against Berdine’s before downing the liquor.

“... _Zu Drauka_ ,” Berdine said quietly. “You speak High D’Haran?”

“A mite bit,” Sledge replied, not looking at her, opting to look about the room instead. “Is that why you're here? Break me or kill me?”

Berdine downed her own drink and nearly choked for a third time. She rarely drank and almost never anything stronger than ale or wine. Harsh heat from the white whiskey bloomed in her throat and chest as it settled in her stomach. She blew out a whooshing breath, trying to ease the burn and sharp, bitter taste in her mouth.

“We,” she started, having to clear her throat to continue. “We don’t do that anymore.”

The words hung heavy between them with centuries of pain making them all but drip with things better left unspoken.

Sledge finally looked at Berdine, brows knitted in lingering anger and disbelief over hazel eyes that darted between Berdine's own, searching.

Berdine told herself the warmth in her stomach was from the alcohol.

“Look,” she started, shifting in her seat to look more directly at the other woman. “I’m sorry about Rikka. She shouldn’t have made that bet, and I’m sorry I didn’t stop her from making it.”

Sledge whipped around on her stool.

“Cass!” She shouted. “Cass, am I dead? Did that Mord-Sith kill me? Is my body actually on the floor and I’m a ghost?”

“We couldn’t get that lucky!” Cass shouted back with a sharp, short laugh, filling several mugs of ale. “Why?”

“This one _apologized_!”

Cass let up on the keg tap, last mug only half full, to stare incredulously at Sledge.

“How in the world did you manage to piss off three Mord-Sith and not only _live_ , but get one to apologize?”

“Keeper’s own luck, I guess,” Sledge said with a shrug.

“Keeper’s luck, my ass!” Cass shouted, resuming her work. “Even _he_ isn’t that lucky!”

Sledge laughed, a low, warm sound as the corners of her eyes crinkled with her mirth. She clutched a hand to her stomach, laughing and wincing in turns as the red welts were beginning to bloom into dark, purple bruises.

Berdine was suddenly very interested in her empty shot glass.

“Y’alright?” Cass asked casually through her own laughter.

“Yeah,” Sledge said with a small grimace. “Just sore. I’ll probably feel worse tomorrow.”

“How’s that doing?” Cass asked, indicating the split eyebrow.

Sledge touched it gingerly, checking her fingertips for blood. There was none.

“No stitches.”

“Let me get you some salve,” Cass said before disappearing through a door behind the bar. She returned quickly with a small jar, setting it in front of Sledge. “Here. And don't say I never did nothin' for ya.”

“Thanks,” Sledge said, removing the lid and smearing a bit of a thick substance that smelled strongly of pine tar and clove oil onto her eyebrow and knuckles.

Berdine watched her arms flex as she brought her hands to her face, gently massaging the salve into the gash before working more into her hands. She wondered what it felt like to be held in those arms as she...

Berdine felt her face heat again and quickly looked away, silently praying she hadn’t been caught. Luckily, Sledge didn’t seem to notice as she replaced the lid on the salve jar, idly wiping excess from her palms onto her stomach. Berdine swallowed thickly, knowing full well it wasn’t the alcohol making heat pool in the pit of her stomach.

“Ah, hell,” Sledge muttered, looking down at herself. “You got my shirt, Cass? And boots? Or know who does?”

“Check with Eli,” Cass said, nodding her head in the direction of the swarthy barman.

Sledge got up without a word, leaving Berdine alone with her racing thoughts.

 _This is ridiculous_ , she thought, fiddling with her empty shot glass. The warmth in her chest was beginning to seep into her arms and legs.

She made to stand and leave, but before she could move, Sledge returned wearing a short-sleeved, loose-fitting shirt that matched the green of her trousers. The collar lacing was undone, exposing her collar bones and a bit of her chest bindings peeked out from the bottom of the lacing. Berdine was torn between relief and a sense of loss she knew she wasn’t entitled to.

Sledge grabbed Berdine’s shot glass and refilled it, setting it down with a soft _plunk_.

“Oh you don’t—“

“You’re one behind,” Sledge said, cutting her off.

Berdine stared for a moment.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“No,” Sledge said, simply. “But where I’m from, it’s rude to not drink with someone to whom you’ve apologized.”

“And where is that?”

Sledge gave no answer but a smirk and a wave of her hand to encourage her to drink. Berdine continued to stare at her unlikely companion as she gingerly brought the glass to her lips, tossing back the liquor and awkwardly swallowed, trying to suppress a gag and cough.

Sledge burst into loud laughter that quickly turned to a grimace as she clutched her side, continuing to chuckle.

“The mighty Mord-Sith!” she said, waving a grand gesture at Berdine. “Scourge of D’Hara and bane of sorcerers, discomfited by a drop of white lightning!”

She clapped Berdine on the shoulder with a heavy hand and broad smile, leaving her skin burning beneath her brown leather armor with a fire Berdine knew had nothing to do with drink. She barely suppressed the electric thrill that raced down her spine to take root in the pit of her stomach.

Sledge quickly poured each of them a third drink, easily throwing hers back with a hearty cry of “ _Zu Drauka_!”

Berdine cradled her still-full glass between her hands, knowing better than to try to keep up with the other woman.

“Why do you drink to death?” She asked, words running somewhat together.

“It’s the only constant in life,” Sledge replied with a shrug.

“What a bleak thought.”

“No, that,” Sledge replied, emphasizing the word with a firm poke to Berdine’s thigh. “Is a bleak thought. When you resign yourself to the fact that death comes for us all in the end, it frees your mind to the think of other things.”

“Like what?” Berdine asked, a bit breathlessly, the spot on her thigh tingling.

“Anything,” Sledge said, spreading her hands wide on the bar. “Warm bread fresh from the oven, birdsong at dawn, how good it feels to squish mud between your toes.”

Berdine wrinkled her nose at the last comment. Her tongue felt a bit thick and her lips felt swollen and numb.

 _Berdine_ , a familiar voice sounded in her head, cutting through the fog of alcohol like a knife. _You are a beautiful_ fool.

Her body felt as if it had been dunked into and filled with ice. Hot tears stung her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Her chest felt tight as she drew a deep, ragged breath. She held it, squeezing her eyes shut and struggling to contain a sob. Her grief, fresh as it had ever been, yawned wide, threatening to swallow her whole.

“What?” Sledge asked with a small smirk. “You don’t like mud?”

The smirk faded, replaced with something akin to concern.

“Y’alright?” she asked, tilting her head to look directly into Berdine’s face. “Y’gonna be sick?”

Berdine swallowed hard, shaking her head as much in answer as to dislodge the ghost living in her brain.

“Just dizzy,” she replied in a small voice that threatened to crack under the weight of her sudden sorrow.

Sledge regarded her coolly for a moment before gently taking the still-unfinished shot from her hands.

“Alright, Library,” she said, almost gently. “I’m cutting you off, you lightweight.”

Berdine forced a smirk, avoiding eye contact. The wave of mourning and wretched heartbreak was still rolling over her, but slowly beginning to pass, getting replaced bit by bit with a tingling, numb sensation that made her limbs heavy as lead and head swim. She decided to blame it on the drink. It was easier.

 _Besides_ , she thought bitterly to herself. _Mord-Sith don't cry._

“What is your actual name?” Sledge asked, her voice slowly permeating Berdine’s drink-and-sorrow-addled brain. “Unless it’s really ‘Library Staff,’ which just proves you D’Harans are a strange lot.”

“Ber—“ Berdine swallowed and cleared her throat. “Berdine.”

“Berdine,” Sledge said slowly, almost cradling the name in her mouth as she looked forward, propping her chin up on the back of her hand still holding the liquor glass.

Against her will, Berdine had a flash, a vision of those lips reverently whispering her name like a prayer in the dark. Shame and guilt flared in her chest, making her stomach drop and heating her face.

“A surprisingly soft name for someone who hunts wizards,” Sledge said, sitting upright and setting down the liquor.

A small, distant part of Berdine wanted to make a joke, say anything to throw her drinking partner off balance and put her back in control.

“What about you?” was all she could muster.

The other woman looked at her a moment, a small struggle playing out on her angular, yet somewhat soft, face. Sledge worried her bottom lip between her teeth, unknowingly holding Berdine captive in her thoughtful gaze, before holding out a large (and now very bruised) hand.

“Cillian,” she said. “Only friends call me Sledge.”

Berdine cautiously placed her hand into Cillian’s, and instantly regretted having taken off her gloves earlier. The other woman’s hand was warm, slightly rough with calluses, and had a strong, yet curiously careful, grip as they shook on their belated introduction. Cillian took her hand back, leaving Berdine with the same sense of loss from earlier and a need to feel that hand tangled in her hair.

“Are we not friends?” Berdine asked, slightly hoarse. She had meant it to sound more teasing and lighthearted, but she couldn’t think through the whiskey, shame, and...what was this?

Cillian gave her a warm, lopsided grin and looked at her with half lidded eyes as she crossed her legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee, leaning heavily on the bar.

“Not yet,” she said, regarding her black leather boot with an idle air. “But we can keep talking and see what happens.”

Maybe she was projecting, or maybe it was the whiskey, but Berdine could have sworn she saw something else, something more than easy, passing friendliness flash in Cillian’s eyes, turning her grin from playful to almost ravenous.

Cillian caught Berdine’s gaze and held it for a few, pounding heartbeats before quickly flicking her eyes downward and slapping her booted ankle.

“Friends with a Mord-Sith,” she muttered more to herself than anything and giving a short bark of a laugh that was almost rueful. “Keeper's got it out for me.”

Before Berdine could even consider throwing out a clever quip, she felt hands on either shoulder, causing her spine to stiffen in surprise.

“Oh, so now we’re making friends?” Rikka asked, mouth close to Berdine’s ear, making her jump a little. “What happened to apologizing and leaving?”

Berdine have a sheepish shrug, watching out of the corner of her eye as Cillian reached back over the bar, producing another shot glass.

“I’ve accepted her apology on your behalf, Mord-Sith,” she said, handing Rikka a shot. “But you need to bury the hatchet.”

She refilled her own glass, holding it gently and regarding Rikka with an expectant gaze.

Rikka twirled the glass in her gloved fingers, searching the clear liquor for a response before visibly swallowing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Say again?” Cillian asked, a hard edge creeping into her her tenor. “You need to speak up. One too many knocks to the head.” She tapped her ear with her free hand.

“I’m sorry!” Rikka said again, almost shouting, glancing around the room as if expecting someone to laugh or make a cutting remark. “Alright?! It was a stupid joke that got out of hand.”

Cillian nodded once, frowning thoughtfully before tapping the lip of her glass to Rikka’s.

“ _To mud between your toe_ s,” she said in High D’Haran, making a great show of throwing back her liquor and slamming the glass upside down on the bar.

Berdine gave a small smile in spite of herself.

“Cheers,” Rikka said hesitantly, eyeing Cillian carefully before throwing back her own liquor and grimacing at the acrid, not quite oily, taste. “Spirits! What is this, lamp oil?”

“I tried that once,” Cillian said lightly, idly picking a thread on her trousers. “Can’t say I recommend it.”

She looked at both Mord-Sith, her face a picture of absolute sincerity. Berdine and Rikka glanced at each other, an unspoken question hanging between them.

“Why would you—“

Cillian cut Rikka off, letting out peals of warm laughter, lightly slapping Rikka’s stomach with the back of her hand.

“I’m _fucking_ with you.”

A slow smile spread across Rikka’s face as she jabbed a finger at Cillian.

“You,” she said, mischief coloring her voice. “Oh, I like you.”

Rikka reached between Cillian and Berdine to set her empty glass on the bar before placing a steadying hand on Berdine’s shoulder as she was beginning to sway on her stool.

“I hate to cut what would be an undoubtedly _fun_ night short,” Rikka said, casting a meaningful glance at Berdine, who pretended not to notice. “But I think this one has drunk her fill, and then some.”

“Suit yourselves,” Cillian answered with a shrug, turning on her stool to face the bar once again.

Rikka helped Berdine get, rather unsteadily, to her feet, keeping a hand to her elbow to support her on their walk back to the Confessor’s Palace.

“Wait,” Berdine protested, twisting her torso in Rikka’s grip to look back at Cillian. “You never said where you’re from.”

Cillian absently scratched at her ( _handsome_ , Berdine thought) jawline before resting her chin on interlaced fingers, giving Berdine the barest hint of a smile.

“I guess that means you’ll have to come back.”

* * *  
Cara and Rikka teased her relentlessly on their journey back to the palace. Some time later, they helped her out of her boots and into bed to sleep off the whiskey.

Berdine didn’t know how long she had laid awake, unseeing eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling above her bed, turning the night's events over and over in her mind. When she did finally drift to sleep, she had fitful, disjointed dreams of warm hands and green-grey eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Berdine is a big, dumb, hopeless academia lesbian who needs a big, dumb, himbo jock lesbian to give her big, dumb hugs. I'll die on this hill and leave my corpse as a marker.


	3. Desperately Seeking Cillian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of some home renovations and I've been busy with work, so I'm sorry for the slight delay. I also took the extra time to research Early Medieval Ireland and the Irish language in order to model the Cosmaine region for Cillian's backstory. If I've made any mistakes or misinterpreted something, please let me know so I can fix it in the text.
> 
> Enjoy the yearning, lads.

The days bled into weeks as Berdine redoubled her work translating Kolo’s journal and other texts in the palace library. She’d managed to glean enough helpful information that allowed Lord Rahl to better control his gift, but the passages had been buried within mountains of drivel. Everything from daily meals to grain harvest yields had been written down by the ancient wizards and city administrators, and she and Richard had to slog through it all to find even the smallest kernel of usable text or context for something else they had found.

The candle between Richard and Berdine had burned down to its last few inches, prompting the pair to stop for the night. Berdine marked her place and stretched, working the tension from her shoulders and neck.

“Any luck?” Richard asked, rubbing his eyes.

“None,” Berdine answered, scrubbing a hand over her face. “And I’ve had none for two weeks now. I can’t seem to crack this passage.”

“It’s too bad there aren’t more people we could have help us,” Richard said with a jaw-cracking yawn, standing to make his way to the door and to bed. “Fresh eyes and minds would definitely make this go more quickly.”

Berdine nodded absently as she made her own way out of the library. She stopped short at the door, tapping on the jamb.

“Actually,” she said, knitting her brows together in thought. “There might be someone who can help.”

“Who?” Richard asked. “Someone here?”

“No,” Berdine said, shaking her head. “I actually don’t know where they are, but I can try to find them in the morning.”

“I’ll come with you,” Richard said simply.

* * *

It had taken the better part of the morning to find the tavern from her outing with Cara and Rikka. In her defense, she hadn’t paid much attention to how they had gotten there in the first place, and it had been dark (and she well on her way to drunk) when they had left.

“The Copper Roc,” Richard said quietly, reading the brightly painted wooden sign hanging above the door. “Sounds like an...interesting place.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Berdine said, pushing open the door and stepping inside. A bell jingled above them as she shut the door again.

“Welcome!” a woman’s voice called from somewhere inside. “Have a seat anywhere ya like. We don’t serve ale this early, but I can get you some watered wine!”

A familiar, small, dark-haired woman bustled into view, tossing a towel over her shoulder.

“Oh!” Cass exclaimed, surprised. “It’s you. Wasn’t sure I’d see you round here again. Missed you at the last tourney.”

Berdine shifted her weight awkwardly as Richard looked on in polite confusion.

“I’ve been...busy,” Berdine said, taking a seat at the bar. “I’m actually looking for—“

“What’d she do?” Cass said, lowering her voice and glancing at Richard. “She in trouble?”

“No,” Berdine said, raising her hands and shaking her head. “We just need to talk to her.”

“I told her to keep to herself and not go about sticking her nose in business that isn’t hers,” Cass said quietly, absently wiping at an already clean spot on the bar.

“She’s good people,” Cass said, looking up at Berdine. “Whatever she done, she done for good reason. And it must’a been som’thin right bad if you’re bringing a big fuck like that in here.”

Berdine turned back to look at Richard, motioning for him to join her.

“She’s not in any kind of trouble,” Berdine repeated as Richard sat down next to her. “Lord Rahl and I just need to speak with her.”

Cass’ eyes went wide as the color drained from her face. She immediately dropped into a quick, awkward curtsy.

“L-Lord Rahl!” She stammered, bowing her head and not looking back up. “My apologies, I didn’t know—“

“Stop, please,” Richard said, embarrassed. “You don’t have to do that.”

Cass kept her head bowed, clearly uncomfortable.

“Sledge isn’t here,” she said. “Probably at the southern quarry for work.”

“Looks like we have more walking to do,” Richard said, standing. “Thank you.”

Berdine nodded her head in thanks and made to follow Richard, but felt a hand grasp her wrist.

“She’s good people,” Cass repeated, fear etched on her face.

“I know,” Berdine said, taking Cass’ hand. “I promise, she’s not in trouble.”

“So,” Richard said lightly once they were back on the streets of Aydindril. “Missed you at the tourney, huh?”

Berdine rolled her eyes and kept silent, setting a quick, determined pace towards the southern gate of the city.

It had taken much less time to find the quarry, getting directions from guards posted at the gate and travelers on the road. Richard and Berdine located Cillian in a far corner of the site, working with two men on several massive slabs of granite.

“Right,” Cillian said to the man next to her as she set a wedge and hopped up onto the first slab next to the second man. “Keep an eye on that line, and give a shout if it cracks wrong!”

She and the second man walked to either end of the slab, each with a heavy sledgehammer. Cillian rhythmically tapped hers on the stone before quickly raising it and bellowing a call and response song to keep time as they slammed down on each wedge, working their way towards the center and back to the edges of the slab.

_We’ll heave him up an away we’ll go_   
_‘Way me Susiana!_   
_We’ll heave him up an away we’ll go_   
_We’re all bound over the mountain!_

_We’ll heave him up from down below_   
_‘Way me Susiana_   
_This is where the cocks do crow_   
_We’re all bound over the mountain!_

_And if we drown while we are young_   
_‘Way me Susiana_   
_It’s better to drown than wait to be hung_   
_We’re all bound over the mountain!_

_Oh, growl ye May but go ye must_   
_‘Way me Susiana_   
_If ye growl too hard yer head they’ll bust_   
_We’re all bound over the mountain!_

As they made the last few, tentative hammer blows, the granite slab cracked with a sound like none Berdine had ever heard before, a large piece sheared away and fell to a waiting sledge to be taken for further processing.

Cillian waved her arms, jumping down to speak with the horse team driver before walking to a table laden with scrolls, tools, and water skins. She took up a pair of water skins, tossing them to her work partners before taking the last for herself.

“Stay here,” Berdine said to Richard.

“Are you sure?” he asked, absently placing a hand on the pommel of his sword. “He won’t run or try to fight?”

“She,” Berdine corrected, setting off. “And no.”

Berdine carefully picked her way across the busy stone yard, avoiding workers hauling scree in barrows, tools, and all manner of equipment.

Cillian held out a hand, signaling Berdine to wait while she drank deeply.

“I’ll be honest, Library,” Cillian said, tossing the water skin back on the table and looking over the remaining work orders. “I figured you’d show up again eventually, but I didn’t think it’d be here.”

“I wouldn’t have if it weren’t important,” Berdine said, stepping closer and lowering her voice. “You speak High D’Haran, yes?”

Cillian frowned and placed her hands on her work table.

“Aye,” she said after a long moment.

“We need your help,” Richard said, making Berdine jump and Cillian turn around. “Berdine says you can speak—“

“Again, aye,” Cillian said, turning back to her paperwork. “Just say what you need.”

“Translations,” Berdine said quickly before turning to address Richard. "I said I could handle this."

“I’m not an archivist,” Cillian said, standing upright and turning to face her.

“Anything you can do would be of great help,” Richard said.

“How much?”

“What?” Richard asked, confused.

“The pay,” Cillian said, crossing her arms and leaning against the table. “Translations, at least ones worth anything, take time. Time away from my job. That pays for my food and my rent. Do they not have food or rent where you’re from?”

“I...I don’t know,” Richard said, looking to Berdine for support. “I—“

“What do you need?” Berdine asked quickly.

Cillian regarded her with an unreadable look.

“Ten gold a week,” Cillian said simply. “No less.”

“Wait,” Richard said, shaking his head. “Why so much?”

“It’s the same as I make here,” Cillian said flatly. “What? Didn’t clear a budget with your Lord Rahl first? That is bad form, friend. Never come to the table without an offer.”

“Fine,” Berdine said, irritation clear. “Ten gold a week.”

“And I am Lord Rahl,” Richard said.

“Good,” Cillian said, seemingly unfazed and turning back to her work. “You can tell my foreman why he has to hire a new cutter.”

“When can you start?” Berdine asked.

“Tomorrow,” Cillian said, organizing a few scrolls. “What time and where?”

“As early as you can,” Berdine said, keeping an eye on Richard as he walked away to find Cillian’s foreman. “And the Confessor’s Palace.”

Cillian made a low whistle.

“Fancy digs,” she said with a small smile. “Can’t imagine they’ll let me wander until I find the library.”

“I’ll have someone wait for you in the receiving hall.”

“Oi! Sledge!” called one of the work companions. “We gonna work or you gonna jack yer jaw all day?”

“Feck off, slag!” Cillian called back, throwing a rude gesture toward her coworkers. “We’re paid by the hour, not the block!”

She turned back to Berdine, extending a hand.

Berdine took it, noticing the difference between this handshake and their last: firm, confident, almost detached. She didn’t know why it made her heart sink slightly.

“Deal struck,” Cillian said with a tone that let Berdine know that their business was done. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Berdine told herself Cillian had certainly _not_ smiled at her.

* * *

Berdine and Richard were already deep into their work for the day when a palace guard opened the door to the library. He touched a fist to his heart and bowed.

“A Cillian Montbriar for you, Mistress and Lord Rahl,” he said simply.

“Show her in,” Berdine said, marking her place in her book and closing it.

Cillian strode into the room, thanking the guard before walking up to Berdine.

“Morning,” Berdine said as she stood. She fought the urge to let her eyes wander over Cillian.

“Morning,” Cillian said flatly, eyeing the table laden with tomes, scrolls, and scrap paper. “You were not joking when you said you needed help.”

She picked a book from a stack next to Richard, absently flipping through the pages.

“Are we really translating impossibly old and dull trade tariff logs, or are we looking for something specific?” She asked, placing the book back on the table.

“Journals,” Richard said, stretching. “Everything else is to help translate and provide context.”

“That is an exceptionally inefficient system,” Cillian said, walking the length of the table and looking over random sheets of paper. “Just mark words you can’t translate quickly and move on, or mark them and let me see if I can translate it while you two keep working. And instead of slogging through several dozen topics at once, divide between all of us.”

“I thought you weren’t an archivist?” Richard said, a small joking smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not,” Cillian said, not looking at him while sorting materials on the table. “My Nan was, and don’t be glib. It’s too early, and you don’t know me like that.”

“Don’t be rude to Lord Rahl,” Berdine said, face and voice dangerously calm.

“Not my lord,” Cillian said with a shrug. “So don’t expect me to address you as anything but your given name, or ‘Sir,’ if you’re lucky and I’m feeling especially polite.”

Richard held up a hand to stop Berdine, who had opened her mouth to argue.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Respect is earned, not demanded...it’s Richard, by the way.”

“Amendment,” Cillian said, setting a stack of books next to him and another in front of Berdine’s seat. “Dick, if you annoy me.”

She placed a hand on each stack of books.

“These,” she indicated Richard’s pile. “Seem like they’re all meeting logs and administrative memos. Could lead to specifics on magic items, spells, or other journals. Assuming I’m correctly guessing that’s what you’re after.”

Berdine and Richard nodded.

“And these,” she said, tapping Berdine’s stack. “Are palace and Wizard’s Keep visitor logs as well as inventory lists. I highly doubt anything is still where these say it is after three thousand years, but it’s a start.”

She handed each of them a stack of blank paper and charcoal pencils.

“For notes, annotations, and threads to pursue. Tear off pieces to mark pages with words you can’t translate within a few minutes. Now, unless there is anything else I need to know, I’m going to look over the notes and translations you’ve made so far.”

With no answer from either Richard and Berdine, Cillian picked up several stacks of papers and moved to a separate table to double-check their work. The rest of the morning passed in relative silence, with only the soft shuffle of turning pages, light scratching of charcoal on paper, and the occasional heavy footfalls as Cillian moved between the two work tables.

“Cillian,” Berdine said, shortly after they had returned from the noon meal. “Do you have a moment?”

“Aye,” Cillian said, nearly stacking finished revisions. “Have something for me?”

“Just one word,” Berdine said, opening her book and indicating the issue. “I’ve never seen or heard this before, and the rest of the passage doesn’t give much context to help.”

Berdine went stock still as Cillian made her way over, leaning close over her shoulder and bracing an arm on either side of her to read. She could feel the warmth of Cillian’s body through her leather armor, making her pulse race. Cillian’s low muttering, so close to her ear, as she read did nothing to alleviate her situation.

“Ah! This ending,” Cillian said, pointing to the word Berdine had indicated. “Is a diminutive common in most central dialects. It changes the base word depending on how it’s conjugated.”

“I see,” Berdine said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as breathy as she feared.

“I don’t know if there’s a direct translation into Common,” Cillian continued, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on the Mord-Sith. “But this seems to indicate a subordinate of some kind. Perhaps a page, or an apprentice for a specific job.”

Cillian movesd to sit next to Berdine, pulling the book and loose paper close. Berdine dropped her shoulders, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I would translate this,” Cillian said slowly as she wrote, making small and messy capital letters on the scrap paper. “As something like, ‘My page and I travelled to Tamarang to take stock of the standing legions and help the other wizards fortify city defenses.’”

She slid the book and paper back with a small, expectant smile.

“Make sense?” She asked.

“Yes,” Berdine said with a nod. “Thank you.”

Cillian continued to smile and gave a dismissive wave of her hand as she moved to stand by Richard, helping him fit considerably more numerous unfamiliar words into his notes. Berdine cast what she hoped were furtive glances at their new work partner, noting how the muscles in Cillian’s forearms corded and flexed as she moved books and papers around; quickly raked her gaze over strong legs as Cillian slowly walked between work tables and bookshelves, and taking in the small creases and divots that formed on her forehead when she knit her brows together in thought or concentration.

The rest of the day passed quickly, with Lord Rahl being called away in the early evening to meet with an advisory council and leaving Berdine alone with Cillian.

“Alright,” Cillian said, sitting heavily in a chair diagonally across from Berdine. She handed Berdine a stack of notes, revisions and annotations scribbled over most of the pages. “I don’t remember which stack was whose, because I have no idea what your handwriting looks like. But everything so far has been generally good. Southern dialects can be tricky since they borrow words from dead languages originating in the Old World and we don’t have any resources for translating them. But I think these are solid; I just tweaked syntax to sound better to our modern ears.”

“How did you come to speak High D’Haran?” Berdine asked, setting her work aside.

“Same as you, I suppose,” Cillian said with a laugh. “I was taught. My Nan was an archivist and lorekeeper for the druid’s college. I think she was hoping I’d end up the same.”

“What druid’s college?” Berdine asked, propping her chin up with her hand, idly tapping irregular rhythms on the table with her other hand.

Cillian leaned forward, setting a gentle hand on Berdine’s to stop the tapping. The brief, light contact sent an electric shot up her arm, to settle and bloom as a familiar heat low in her belly.

“Sorry,” Cillian said, sitting back and pointing to her right ear. “I can’t hear very well. Between the pit fighting and the quarry, I’m damn near deaf. What were you asking me?”

“What druid’s college?” Berdine repeated, filing that information away and pressing her palm flat to the table.

“Draíocht,” Cillian said slowly, as if it were common knowledge. “In Cosmaine.”

“I’m sorry,” Berdine said, shaking her head. “I’m not familiar with that place.”

Cillian stood and disappeared among the bookshelves, returning quickly with a large scroll of vellum. She unfurled it on the table, revealing a map of the New World.

“You won’t find it on an official map,” Cillian explained, pointing to a mountainous region near the border of D’Hara and Kelton. “Keltish bastards don’t want anyone to know they haven’t been in control for decades. But it’s here. One of the few places in the Midlands where people are truly free.”

Berdine stood to get a better view of the map and where Cillian had indicated. She gave a small laugh and pointed to an area just in the other side of the mountain range and former boundary.

“I grew up here,” she said, smile turning sad. “Small world.”

“And getting smaller every day, apparently,” Cillian said with her own faint smile. “I wonder...”

She trailed off as she traced a finger along the unmarked border of her homeland.

“Wonder what?” Berdine asked, taking the opportunity to study Cillian’s face.

Nose, slightly crooked from an old break, both eyebrows sporting multiple slits, and a thick scar running from her right temple down her cheek twisting the corner of her mouth into a sort of faint, permanent smirk. Another thick, twisting scar circled her neck, just under her jaw. Berdine swallowed thickly as she realized what it was from. She quickly averted her gaze as Cillian looked up, turning the map to show her something.

“I was just thinking,” Cillian said absently. “The boundary went up before I was born, and I was never interested in the first war with D'Hara, but perhaps these two regions were part of one at some point. Or at least very closely connected.”

She caught Berdine’s steady, slightly piteous gaze, giving a small, sad smile of her own.

“The scar?” She asked softly.

“I’m sorry,” Berdine said quickly, sitting back in her chair. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” Cillian said, taking her own seat. She raised a hand to her throat, tracing the old scar as her eyes clouded with some memory. “I just...it’s not a story to be told casually.”

“I’m sorry,” Berdine repeated in a whisper.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Cillian said gently, reaching across the table once again to give Berdine’s hand a reassuring squeeze. She gently brushed a thumb across her knuckles. “No harm, no foul.”

Their hands were clasped for only a brief moment, but to Berdine it felt like a lifetime. She was born, and lived, and died in that simple gesture. Her chest filled with a hollow ache as Cillian let go to re-roll the map.

“I think we’ve done about all we can for today,” Cillian said, returning to the table after replacing the map from where it came. “Pick back up tomorrow?”

“It’s not yet sundown,” Berdine said, glancing out of the high, leaded glass window. “Surely we can work a bit longer?”

“We could,” Cillian said with a shrug. “But this is my usual end time for work. I need to eat and do a few things before it gets too late.”

“You could have dinner here,” Berdine offered.

 _With me_ , she didn’t say.

“I appreciate it,” Cillian said with a hand wave as she gathered her things. “But I promised Cass I’d pop by the tavern, prove I’m not dead.”

“She seems like a good friend,” Berdine said simply, falling into step with Cillian as they made to exit the library.

“She’s been known to pull my ass from the fire a time or two,” Cillian said with a faint smile.

“Tell her that I’m sorry we made her worry.”

Cillian laughed.

“She gave me a right ration of shit yesterday,” Cillian said, still chuckling. “Not that I won’t do something at some point to deserve it. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“Still,” Berdine said quietly. “Reputation is a difficult thing to escape.”

“Don’t I know it,” Cillian muttered.

“You mentioned you had druids in your family,” Berdine said after a long moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before.”

“Oh, Nan wasn’t a Druid,” Cillian said, shaking her head. “Just worked at the college. My ma is though, and my da is a master stonecutter. Hence the quarry work.”

“What is a Druid?” Berdine asked, clasping her hands behind her back, not knowing what else to do with them. “A sorceress?”

“Ehh,” Cillian said, tilting her head from side to side. “Not quite. Druidic magic isn’t sex specific like wizards and sorceresses. Anyone can be a Druid if you’re willing to put in the work. It’s more like if you took a priest, a healer, and a mage and mixed them together.”

“Interesting.”

“I tried,” Cillian said with a shrug. “But I am pure shite at reading oracles, and I don’t much like talking to the dead unless I have no other choice.”

“You can commune with spirits?” Berdine asked, step faltering as a spark of an idea flared in the back of her mind.

“Aye,” Cillian said, looking over at her companion. “But I don’t like to. Let the dead rest, they’ve earned it.”

Berdine worried her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking.

“Who is it?”

“What?” Berdine asked, snapping from her thoughts.

“You’re thinking about asking me to call upon someone,” Cillian said, stopping and turning to Berdine. She held up a hand to stop Berdine as she opened her mouth to speak. “Most folk do when they learn I can do it. But I have to say again: I don’t like to do it, unless there is a dire need. And it doesn’t always work; most spirits don’t like to be bothered.”

“My—“ Berdine stopped short, unsure of how to frame her relationship with Raina to a practical stranger. “I lost someone very close to me. In the Plague.”

Berdine felt herself drawn into a tight hug, arms pinned to her sides. If Cillian had any lighter of a hold on her, she would have buckled at the knees. Her heart hammered against her ribs and her head swam.

“I’m sorry,” Cillian said softly. “That’s a horrible way to lose someone.”

Just as suddenly as it happened, Cillian pulled away to leave Berdine trying to keep her breathing steady and swallowing thickly.

“I’m sorry,” Cillian repeated, an endearing blush dusting her face. “I didn’t mean to impose. You just looked like you could use a hug.”

“No,” Berdine croaked, wetting her lips and taking a deep, steadying breath. “It’s...appreciated.”

She followed Cillian as far as the massive double doors at the entrance of the Palace, exerting a mighty effort to not let the conflicting emotions roiling within her chest rip her apart. She wasn’t sure how she got back to her rooms, but she flung herself onto the bed, curling up into herself as a sob tore its way out of her.


	4. Standardized Testing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today, lads. And in Hobbit fashion, my gift to y'all is a new chapter. As always, please leave a comment if you see something that needs fixed or just want to give me the validation I so desperately crave.
> 
> Also: visual puns are the best puns

Berdine sat at her usual work table in the library, head in her hands and staring blankly at her open book. Her eyes burned and itched from lack of sleep and her head was pounding. She had spent the last few nights tossing and turning, unable to put her mind at rest; if sleep came, dawn followed too soon after.

She barely reacted as the door opened and a guard stepped inside, raising a fist to his heart and bowing.

“Master Cillian Montbriar to see you, Mistress,” he said.

Berdine simply waved her hand, signaling for the guard to let Cillian enter.

Cillian paused in front of the guard, an amused expression on her face. She shook her head and gave a shrug.

“Close enough,” she said as she made to sit across from Berdine. “Gods, are you alright?”

“I didn’t sleep,” Berdine said, hoping she didn’t sound as awful as she felt. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can come back later,” Cillian said. “Or tomorrow if you want to go lie down.”

“No,” Berdine said, scrubbing both hands over her face. “This needs done.”

“Are you sure?” Cillian asked, concern etched on her face. “This can be fairly taxing on a well-rested mind, let alone one that hasn’t slept.”

“I’ll be fine,” Berdine repeated, regretting the hard edge to her tone. “I’ll take breaks when I need to.”

Cillian held her hands up in resignation before diving into her work.

“You didn’t correct him,” Berdine said in belated response. Spirits, it was going to be a long day.

“What?” Cillian asked, not looking up from her book.

“The guard,” Berdine said. “He called you _Master_ Cillian, and you didn’t correct him.”

Cillian looked up and shrugged.

“There are more important things to worry about,” she said. “And besides, being mistaken for a man is useful sometimes. Like when you need a cart of lumber to rebuild a wall of your house and you’re worried the yard master is going to try to sell you warped, pithy garbage.”

“How, though?” Berdine asked, giving up on her work for a moment in favor of something less mentally taxing. “Unless they’re blind, anyone could see you’re a woman.”

“People see what they want to,” Cillian said,  
rapidly scribbling another series of notes. “The name helps, as well.”

“Cillian is a man’s name, isn’t it?” Berdine mused aloud, too tired to care if she were being rude.

“That’s what happens when your da is dead-set on having a first-born son,” Cillian said with a small smile as she turned the page in her book. “But he gets me instead. So, he said, ‘Fuck it, she’s Cillian because she’s going to be a right pain in the arse.’ Actual words from my da, by the by. But I think the six lads what followed made up for that.”

“Six!” Berdine said loudly, eyes going wide.

“Aye,” Cillian said simply, returning her focus to her work. “And all of them as bad, or worse, as I.”

Berdine gave a small smile in spite of herself, letting the pair fall into an easy silence punctuated only by turning pages and scratching of charcoal.

“No Dick today?” Cillian asked after awhile.

“What?” Berdine asked, jumping and shaking her head. She had most certainly _not_ dozed off.

“Rahl,” Cillian said, lightly slapping her palm on the table indicating the empty seat.

“Oh,” Berdine said. “No, he’s...away on business.”

“Just as well,” Cillian said with a shrug and small smile. “Don’t much care for dick.”

“He’s a good man,” Berdine said softly.

Cillian looked up with an oddly puzzled, yet amused, expression.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, smile growing to a lopsided grin that faded quickly. “You need to go lie down before you fall out of your chair.”

“I’m fine,” Berdine said weakly, knowing it was a lie.

“I can go it alone for a few hours,” Cillian said, setting down her charcoal pencil. “I can wake you for the noon meal. A few hours of sleep is better than none at all, trust me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Berdine said, hoping the heat in her face didn’t show.

“Don’t make me pick you up and carry you,” Cillian said, setting an elbow on the table and pointing a finger at Berdine. Her eyes flashed with amusement and something else Berdine’s sleep-deprived mind couldn’t place. “You won’t much like it.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Cillian said, pushing back from the table and standing. “Have it your way.”

Berdine let out a yelp as Cillian scooped her up from her chair, cradling her shoulders and legs as she carried her to one of the oversized, cushioned chairs scattered throughout the library. Her head spun with more than exhaustion as she secretly reveled in the show of strength. Her pleasure was rudely cut short as Cillian dropped her unceremoniously into a comfortable chair; she sank into the cushions, eyes sliding shut against her will.

“Rest,” Cillian said, authority clear in her voice and making Berdine’s mouth go dry. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

Without waiting for Berdine to protest or surrender, Cillian spun on her heel and disappeared around a bookshelf. Berdine allowed herself a small smile as sleep finally took her.

It felt like only seconds had passed when she felt someone gently shaking her awake, but the sunlight streaming through the high, leaded-glass windows told her it was around midday. She rolled her head and shoulders as she sat up, cracking her neck and working the ache out of her muscles from sleeping in such an awkward position. She tried, and failed, to stifle a huge yawn. Cillian was crouched by her, chin resting on the arm of the chair.

“Don’t do that,” Cillian said through a jaw-cracking yawn of her own. “I’m going to get something to eat and walk around a bit, will you be alright here?”

“No one bothers me in here,” Berdine said stretching and twisting in the chair. “Or a Mord-Sith in general. But I need to get up and work. And you know that you can have one of the footmen bring you food, yes?”

“Well, _Mistress_ ,” Cillian said, putting sarcastic emphasis on the word. “I don’t much like ordering folk about. I am perfectly capable of walking to wherever it is the food is kept and eating my weight in bread.”

“That is a lot of bread,” Berdine teased. “Perhaps I should send word to the kitchens that you’re headed down so they can make more.”

Cillian lifted the hem of her shirt, looking down, and gave her stomach several mighty slaps, the sound of her palm meeting her torso echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. Berdine surreptitiously let her gaze wander over the hard planes and soft curves of Cillian’s torso, noting the rows of short, puckered scars along her sides, faint definition of abdominal muscles under a protective layer of fat, indicating strength rather than vanity; the slight flare of her hips and sweep of her powerful thigh muscles deliciously accentuated by her black, close-fitting trousers. Berdine swallowed hard and ripped her gaze back up, relaxing her shoulders with relief at seeing Cillian still not looking in her direction.

“This needs all the fuel I can manage to fill it with,” Cillian said with a laugh, dropping her shirt and looking up at Berdine. “I was not made to be small and delicate and dainty. I was made for hauling rocks and running from D’Harans.”

Cillian laughed again as she moved to leave the library, disappearing around the bookcase again.

“You haven’t run from me yet!” Berdine called, hoping to get the last word, put herself back in control.

“You’ve yet to give chase!” Cillian called back just before the sound of the heavy oaken door opening and closing was heard.

Berdine could only sit in stunned, yet intrigued, silence.

After several long moments, she stood, wincing at the stiffness in her legs from sleeping curled in the chair, and made her way to the work table to resume her translations. She reluctantly admitted to herself that Cillian had been right: she did feel a little better after a few hours of sleep. As she scanned her book for promising passages, her mind kept turning what Cillian had said over and over, looking for...Berdine didn’t know what she was looking for.

Cillian was attractive, that much she could admit to herself. Tall, strong, and seemed to be good-natured and genuine, though quick-tempered. But they came from different worlds. From what Berdine has managed to learn from their casual conversations, Cillian seemed to be almost in limbo; stuck between a past that was hers to know and a future that only she could see. The mystery added to the allure, and coupled with bright, green-grey eyes and warm smiles, Berdine finally put a pin in her troubles.

She was lonely. She had friends, sure. But they were a poor substitute for a partner with whom you had built some semblance of a life, a home. Someone that knew you better than you knew yourself and was there at the end of the day when you needed a soft place to fall. In the weeks and months since Raina’s death, Berdine had almost wholly withdrawn from palace life; burying herself in work to the point of exhaustion meant she had little energy to think when she was alone in her bed. Not thinking meant no crying. No crying meant she could manage at least a few hours of sleep.

That had to be it. She was just lonely and looking for a connection with another person, no matter who it was. She didn’t even know if Cillian enjoyed the company of women. Though with a face and body like that, she’d have no shortage of bed partners, man or woman. And yet, there were possible signs. Catching the tail end of brief glances during quiet moments at work, banter laced with double-meaning, and the hug. She hadn’t been able to clear that moment from her mind despite her best efforts. The warmth, reassuring hands on her back, and the smell of cedar oil haunted what few daydreams she allowed herself.

She shook her head to clear the memory.

No. She was projecting again. The hug had been a genuine one borne of empathy and compassion; the Plague had left few families in Aydindril untouched by death. Banter meant nothing. Even the Mother Confessor played along with her flirtatious jokes. A connection was what she was seeking, subconsciously manifesting as passing lust. If it was a connection she needed, she would make one. Friendship, she could handle.

With renewed energy and the feeling of a weight lifting from her chest, she set to work humming a tuneless song.

* * *

“Why is it that whenever people discover some new way to enchant objects or create new spells, it’s always weapons?” Cillian asked absently, turning a page in the large book she was scanning. “These people had absolutely zero imagination or foresight.”

“What do you mean?” Berdine asked, looking up from her notes.

“Think about it,” Cillian said, closing the book but keeping her place with a finger. “If you were able to create anything, anything at all, with magic, what would you make?”

Berdine opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut with a frown and contemplative hum. Her brows knit together in thought.

“A shirt that never needs washing,” she said after a few long moments.

“Why?”

“Seems like a useful idea,” Berdine said with a shrug.

“Exactly!” Cillian said, gesturing with her book. “It’s a simple, but exceptionally practical, concept that puts something positive in the world. These idiots were blessed with the power of creation, putting them on almost equal footing with _gods_ , and all they can think to do with it is kill each other in increasingly ridiculous ways.”

She leaned back in her chair, propping her feet on the table and crossed her ankles before returning to her book.

“What would you make?” Berdine asked.

“A bottomless flask of soup,” Cillian replied, not looking up from her page.

“What?” Berdine said, laughing. “Why?”

“I like soup,” Cillian said simply, turning her attention to Berdine and leaning forward. “And, if you’re cold? Warm soup. Hungry or know someone who is? Free soup. Townsguard stops you for public drunkenness? Surprise, it’s soup!”

“You just sound hungry,” Berdine said, still laughing.

“I’m never not hungry,” Cillian replied, returning to her book. “I’m built like a draft horse, and just like a draft horse, I’m highly motivated by the promise of apples and carrots. A sugar cube if you can manage one.”

“Maybe we should pay you in apples rather than gold,” Berdine teased as she made several quick notes in the margins of her translations.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Cillian said through a lopsided grin. “But I don’t think my mortgage holder will let me pay in bushels of apples. Though I’ve never tried, so I could be wrong.”

The pair broke into another bout of easy laughter. In the long weeks of Lord Rahl’s absence, and with Berdine’s resolution to ignore her body’s insistent attraction to her work partner, the two women had begun to strike up a genuine friendship. Days in the library no longer drawn-out, silent affairs, but filled with discussions on their respective texts, palace and city happenings, and shared interests. Berdine had slowly discovered that Cillian was an avid storyteller, able to talk for hours about history and legends if not stopped. She also discovered that Cillian had little regard for personal space unless explicitly told. Nothing inappropriate, but she was always clapping a hand to Berdine’s shoulder, touching her hands and arms while she told stories or excitedly made points in their academic arguments, and recently began to give hugs when they parted for the evening. Brief, platonic embraces paired with well-wishes. Not that Berdine actually minded, but it certainly made certain feelings much more difficult to ignore.

“If you were half as smart as you were strong,” Berdine said, teasing smile still in place. “We’d be through with these texts by now.”

“Oh, now that’s just mean,” Cillian said with a look of mock injury. “But I can’t blame you. You’re just jealous because I’m stronger than you.”

“I think you underestimate me,” Berdine said, pointedly not looking at her work partner. “And that is a grave mistake.”

“Prove me wrong, then,” Cillian said.

Berdine heard and felt a thump on the table, looking up to see Cillian leaning forward, an elbow planted between them ready for an arm wrestling match.

“I am not going to arm wrestle you,” Berdine said, making a show of returning to her notes.

“Because you know I’ll win,” Cillian challenged, wiggling her fingers.

“No,” Berdine said, struggling to suppress a laugh. “We have work to do.”

“Fine,” Cillian said, removing her arm from the table. “I’ll just tell everyone you lost anyway.”

“They won’t believe you.”

“I’m a good storyteller,” Cillian said with an easy smile and a shrug. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are an insufferably cocky shit?” Berdine asked, moving to replace her finished book on the shelf, punching Cillian’s shoulder as she passed.

“Once or twice,” Cillian said, laughing and wincing as she rubbed her shoulder. “What do you have in your gloves? Lead?”

“I told you not to underestimate me.”

“Oh, now who’s cocky?” Cillian challenged, standing and playfully shoving Berdine’s shoulder. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“The beating you got from Rikka wasn’t enough?” Berdine asked, moving to step around Cillian but was blocked by the other, larger woman.

“First of all,” Cillian said, raising a finger. “It wasn’t a beating. And second: I said I want to see what _you've_ got.”

Cillian dropped into a loose, easy stance, guarding her face with her right hand while keeping her left ready to strike. For a split second, the energy changed between them, becoming charged with a strange electricity as Cillian’s eyes took on a glint that Berdine could have sworn she’d seen before. It passed just as quickly as it came, tension breaking as Cillian shot her left hand forward and tried to _tickle_ her.

“Did you just try to tickle me?” Berdine asked, recovering from her temporary stupor. “You know I can’t feel that, right?” It was a lie. Her skin was on fire, begging for more.

“What are you going to do about it?” Cillian teased, shooting her hand forward again only to be easily swatted away. “Big, bad Mord-Sith can’t handle being tickled?”

Berdine’s heart hammered hard against her ribs, and she was grateful for the convenient excuse for her flush and labored breaths. Every nerve ending screamed at her for more with every brief brush of their hands as Berdine easily thwarted Cillian’s hands from finding purchase. She laughed, half with actual amusement and half hysterical, as her eyes dropped to Cillian’s mouth as she bit her bottom lip. She had a flash vision of drawing that lip between her own teeth, causing her to momentarily drop her guard.

Cillian took advantage of the opening, clasping both of Berdine’s hands and threading their fingers together as she mightily shoved her back, back, back until she was pressed flush against the wall. The cool of the stone slowly seeped through her leather in stark contrast to the white-hot, liquid lightning coursing through her veins. Cillian’s grin took on a wicked, ravenous quality as she pinned both of Berdine’s wrists above her head with a firm but easy grip and leaned in; her lips ghosted over the shell of Berdine’s ear as she dropped her voice to a low rumble.

“I win.”

Berdine yanked her hands down, breaking Cillian’s grip to shove the other woman away, partly playing, partly in desperation to create space between them.

“Oh,” Cillian said, hands on knees and laughing great, boisterous peals. “The look on your face! Oh, I wish someone was here to see that.”

Berdine made a show of briskly walking back to her chair, punching Cillian’s other shoulder on her way. Once seated, she pressed her thighs together, trying to staunch the throbbing need and uncomfortable wetness in her core.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Cillian pleaded, sitting heavily in her own chair. “I was only joking around.”

Berdine stayed silent, pretending to work while she regained control of her brain and body. Her mouth turned down into a hard frown as she clenched her teeth, teetering between giving into her need and boiling over with misplaced anger.

She heard Cillian lean forward.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

Silence.

“Did I hurt you?” Cillian asked, voice small and quiet. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Berdine kept her eyes on her work, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hold out against the other woman if she met her gaze. She’d give into her desperate, hungry, searing need to kiss those lips and hands that haunted her waking dreams and lonely moments in the dark; to take Cillian to her bed if only to keep the shadows at bay for one night.

“I clearly crossed a line,” Cillian said, voice strained and thick with emotion. “I’m sorry.”

Berdine drew a long, slow breath and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could make a sound, Cillian’s chair scraped on the stone floor as she stood and made her way towards the door.

“Wait,” Berdine said, breaking her silence and running after Cillian, but it was too late.

The heavy, oaken door shut with a thud, and she was gone. And for the second time since sunrise, Berdine felt hopelessly, utterly alone.


	5. Impulse

Cillian didn’t show up the next morning, leaving Berdine alone with her two-fold guilt. Cillian hadn’t deserved her cold treatment. Berdine had teased and tested her dozens of times, and she bore it with a kind of guarded patience. She hadn’t meant to react so badly; the panic had taken over, and like a swatted wasp, Berdine had struck and stung and chased away the only person outside of the royal household who had been willing to see her as a person.

She hadn’t meant to end up back at the Copper Roc, she only wanted to take a turn about the courtyard to take in the sunshine and clear her head. But her feet and the streets of Aydindril had other plans. She pushed open the wooden door, making the bell overhead jingle as she stepped inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior, finally seeing the dozen or so patrons scattered about the main hall talking, eating, drinking. A momentary hush fell over the room as she made her way to the bar and perched on a stool, waiting for Cass to appear. She did, after a moment, backing out of the door leading to the kitchens and bearing two wooden trenchers laden with bread, mutton, carrots, and potatoes. 

Cass paused a heartbeat as she locked her gaze with Berdine, narrowing her eyes before putting on a smile for her customers.

“I have half a mind t’take a broom t’your head,” Cass said as she approached Berdine, voice low and angry. “Lotta nerve ye got showin yer face here after treatin’ Sledge like that.”

Berdine supposed she deserved that.

“She didn’t come to the palace this morning,” was all Berdine could think to say.

“Can’t say I blame her!” Cass hissed, busying herself with filling mugs with cider and ale for newcomers at the bar. “She come here last night in a right state.”

Berdine felt her heart clench, and she dropped her head and shoulders, failing to hold back the wave of regret and shame that washed over her.

“I need to speak with her.”

“She’s not here,” Cass said, her mouth and eyes set hard.

“Can you tell me where she is?” Berdine asked, unable to hold the shorter woman’s intense gaze.

“Why?” Cass asked, bracing her self against the bar, achingly familiar dark eyes boring into Berdine. 

“To talk,” Berdine said quietly, averting her gaze again to stem the tide of bittersweet memories Cass’ eyes dredged up. “Apologize.”

“I swear that idiot woman is fae-touched,” Cass muttered, shaking her head. She reached across the bar to capture Berdine’s wrist in a hard, warning grip. “I find out ye lied, I’ll not hesitate to take that broom and worse to you.”

“I swear to you,” Berdine said, forcing herself to hold Cass’ hard glare. “I just want to offer an apology.”

Cass pressed her lips into a thin line, regarding Berdine a moment before heaving a resigned sigh. 

“She lives outside the city walls,” she said, standing upright and returning to work. “Go to the South Gate, walk half a mile and turn right. If you hit the bridge, you’ve gone too far.”

Berdine nodded her thanks as she stood. She fidgeted with the chain linking her agiel to her wrist, relief mixing with nervousness in her chest.

“You’re a good friend,” she said, her voice taking on a sad edge. “Cillian is lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Oh, we’re using true names now?” Cass asked with a laugh as her eyes went wide. “Well, you can tell that stupid ass she can tell me herself what a good friend I am.”

* * *  
Berdine ran through her apology over and over again in her mind on her way to Cillian’s home. She idly wondered what kind of home it was. She was mildly surprised to find it was a simple, stone building; roof thatched with fresh-looking straw, fragrant birch smoke rising from the chimney. A low stone and split-rail wall surrounded a small yard behind and to the side of the house. A cider barrel stood next to the yellow-painted door, drinking gourd hanging from a stout length of twine for easy use. A small rocking chair sat opposite of the barrel, looking back out toward the main road. A beautiful calico cat was curled in the chair, yawning and stretching as Berdine approached. She smiled at the cat before taking a steadying breath and raising a fist to knock.

“A moment!” She heard Cillian call from inside. She heard the latch jiggle before the door opened.

Berdine forgot how to breathe. Cillian stood framed in the doorway, shirtless, chest bound. Her torso was flushed with the late afternoon heat, a sheen of sweat causing her muscles to glisten as they caught the sunlight. Fresh and old bruises from prize fights and work painted a patchwork of purples and sickly green-yellows laced through with the pale, pearlescent scars across her abdomen and arms. Berdine felt an envy like never before as her eyes followed a bead of sweat than ran down Cillian’s neck and chest before wicking into her chest bindings. 

“What do you want?” Cillian asked, wiping the sweat from her face with her arm and continuing to bar the door with her body. 

“You didn’t show at the palace today,” Berdine said, finally drawing a breath. “I got worried.”

Cillian barked a hard laugh.

“Oh, so now you’re worried about me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and leveling an incredulous look at Berdine.

“And I wanted to apologize,” Berdine said quickly, fearing Cillian would shut the door on her. “For yesterday. I—I reacted badly, and you didn’t deserve that.”

“You are a master at understatement,” Cillian said dryly before disappearing into the dim interior of the house, leaving the door open and muttering to herself in a language Berdine didn’t understand.

Berdine hesitated, unsure if she had been meant to follow.

“Bring the cat with you!” Cillian called from inside.

Berdine gently and hesitantly picked up the calico, who chirruped in protest but placidly allowed herself to be carried inside. 

“Here,” Cillian said, taking the cat and motioning for Berdine to close the door. “Rooster has been hiding from me all day.”

“She’s very pretty,” Berdine said, watching Cillian scratch Rooster’s ears and chin. She swallowed hard, pushing away memories of Raina feeding chipmunks. “Wait, her name is Rooster?”

“She’s a pain in the ass who likes to scream at me as soon as the sun rises,” Cillian said, letting the cat jump from her arms and onto a low, cushioned chair. She turned to Berdine, giving her an expectant look.

Apology. Right.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Berdine started, fidgeting with her agiel chain. “Testing others is a game, and I’m not used to being tested in return. It caught me off guard, and I reacted badly.”

Cillian continued to stand silently, regarding Berdine with a cool gaze. Berdine touched the end of her agiel, letting the dull pain ground her thoughts and quell the desperate panic that was beginning to bloom in her chest.

“You could have said something,” Cillian said finally, anger clear on her face. “Instead of sitting there like a petulant child.”

She scrubbed a hand over her face before throwing her head from side to side, anger growing stronger.

“I mean, for gods’ sake,” she continued, louder and with a hard edge creeping into her voice. “You let me leave thinking that I did something awful. I thought I hurt you!”

“No,” Berdine said, shaking her head and stepping forward. She reached out to touch Cillian’s arm; Cillian flinched, but didn’t pull away. Berdine took it as a good sign. “You didn’t hurt me, and I don’t think you ever would.”

Cillian was silent except for her hard breathing, clearly trying to control her short temper.

“I’m not good at making or keeping friends,” Berdine continued, voice thick with emotion. “But I’m trying.”

The two women stood facing each other, the silence stretching on and on between them. Berdine’s heart hammered in her chest, genuinely afraid of losing Cillian as a friend over her own foolishness. Her lips tingled with the need to kiss Cillian, soothe the pain and anger dancing in her eyes. 

“Walk with me,” Cillian said, abruptly turning away from Berdine and pulling a previously discarded shirt over her head. 

“What?” Berdine asked, confused.

“I used to throw things when I got mad,” Cillian explained, pulling open a door that led to the walled-in yard. “Now I walk. Let’s walk.”

Berdine followed Cillian outside, blinking against the bright sun. She eyed the small chicken coop, a few hens scratching at the ground for insects and grain, and a neatly stacked pile of split firewood that took up almost the entire back wall of the house. A small shed stood in the far corner of the yard, and Berdine briefly wondered what it was for.

Cillian opened the gate located in the center of the back wall and started out across the rolling pasture toward a copse of trees in the distance. Berdine followed in silence, content to allow Cillian to initiate conversation if she wished. The sound of running water filtered through the air as they approached the tree line, a small creek coming into view. Cillian went first, picking her way down the steep embankment before stepping into the creek to cross to the other side. As soon as she did, her feet slipped out from under her and she fell backwards with a yell and huge splash.

Berdine couldn’t hold back the laughter as Cillian came up gasping and sputtering. She continued to laugh as Cillian attempted to stand up, only to slip again and fall forward. Her laughter died down to intermittent giggles as Cillian finally managed to find solid footing and rose from the knee-deep water. She let her eyes wander over muscles outlined by the now-soaked shirt that clung to Cillian’s skin; somehow, it was more enticing than seeing Cillian without a shirt at all.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, huh?” Cillian asked, snapping Berdine from her thoughts.

Berdine’s eyes went wide as a wicked smile broke out on Cillian’s face and she made quick work of climbing the bank back up. Cillian crouched low, and Berdine scrabbled away once she realized what was about to happen.

“No!” Berdine shouted, laughing again and easily dancing away from Cillian’s lunge. “You’ll ruin my leather!”

Cillian chased Berdine for several minutes before grabbing her around the waist, causing them both to stumble and fall; they rolled in the tall grass, eventually coming to lie side by side, staring up at the sky and laughing.

Berdine looked over at Cillian who looked back, still laughing. And that’s when she was struck with an impulsive idea. If anyone were to ask Berdine why she did it, she wouldn’t have had an answer. 

She rolled onto her side and quickly closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to Cillian’s. Her blood turned to molten fire in her veins. Every cell in her body screamed at her for more, begging for release. Her heart hammered hard against her ribs, the sound of her blood rushing in her ears mingling with the sounds of the creek and drowning out everything else. For a brief moment, the world made sense again. But panic and horror flooded her brain, instantly dousing her passion and making her draw back with a gasp.

Without a word, she shot to her feet and began running back across the open field toward the main road. She heard Cillian calling for her, calling out to stop her. But her legs kept pumping, carrying her in great strides away from Cillian, away from a terrible mistake. She refused to allow herself to look back, and she didn’t stop running until she found herself in her bedchamber.

Chest heaving in labored breaths, she sank to her knees and began to cry.


	6. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all ready for some angst and pain?
> 
> Berdine was the first explicitly lesbian character I had come across in any work of fiction, let alone high-fantasy. And she was an integral part of my journey to self-acceptance and coming out. But on second and third read-throughs of the series, I realized Goodkind did a downright shit job of portraying her relationship with Raina, her self-esteem and identity, and other characters' reaction to her identity. My soft-femme, academic lesbian baby child deserves better.

Cillian stood in the middle of the road, chest heaving with great gasps of as she watched Berdine’s figure grow smaller and smaller as she put distance between them. She cursed her body being built for power rather than speed, lacing her fingers together on the top of her head to open her chest and regain control of her breathing. She had half a mind to give chase again, but her lungs burned and if Berdine had reacted like that...

She coughed and spit, pulling a face in disgust with herself. Eventually her breath slowed and evened out, prompting her to return to her home. She gave Rooster’s ears a scratch as she passed, settling at a small wooden table facing the cooking hearth. Staring into the low flames, she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

It had been a hard three years, living in Aydindril. Coming into the city with a rucksack, an empty coin purse, and not a single soul to call friend. The quarry work had been easy to find, if difficult in other ways; men were quick to condescend, and quicker to try and slip a hand up her shirt. Though a few broken hands and loose teeth soon put a stop to that. The Plague felt like a personal hell, a tailored punishment meant for her as she watched what few friends she had made weaken and die. She thanked Morrigan every day for passing her over, though she carried a fair amount of guilt for surviving so many men and women who were better than her.

And now this.

Berdine was a puzzle; like the wooden boxes her grandda had made her and her brothers every year for Yule. Deceptive in their complexity. Every time Cillian thought she had a piece worked out, it caught on three others. She saw flashes of the woman beneath the near-impenetrable Mord-Sith shell, prompting Cillian to gently prod and pry open the small crack she had found. She had grown up on horror stories of Panis Rahl and his terrible army of women capable of turning a person’s gift against them. Old Nan had warned her to never use her limited gift if she were unlucky enough to cross paths with one, lest she be captured and dragged to the heart of D’Hara to be broken.

She’d been wary of Berdine and her companions that first night at the Copper Roc. She’d seen them enter, warning Eli and Cass to keep an eye on them. Not that anyone could hope to stand against one, let alone three, Mord-Sith in a fight, but if it came to trouble, Cillian needed an easy, quiet exit. She had nearly died on the spot from shock when the one she came to know as Rikka challenged her. Part of her had delighted in the idea of extracting some small sliver of vengeance and justice for generations crushed under D’Haran boots, the rest of her wanted to run until her heart burst. While she never got the exact reason Rikka made the bet, she had made some educated guesses.

It had been more annoying than anything, but she was used to it. Women who usually preferred men chatting her up either genuinely mistaking her for one or wanting to use her for some personal experiment. She rarely entertained their nonsense, finding it difficult outside of Cosmaine to be open and honest about where her attractions lie. The fact that it had been a Mord-Sith to imply the proposition was the most irksome, and she hadn’t meant to lose her temper. But she was tired, bloody, and scared out of her mind. She knew the old ways, the old languages. She knew of girls with less knowledge than she being set upon and turned. Cillian was too old to break, and saved further by having brothers, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t clap her in chains and torture information out of her.

Her first thought of Berdine was that she was tall, almost as tall as Cillian. Cillian came from sturdy stock, both parents breaking six feet, and there were few who could look her in the eye. The second thought was that if she were going to die, there were worse ways to go than at the hands of a pretty woman. At the time, she’d brushed off Berdine’s blush and inability to look at her as embarrassment at what Rikka had proposed. Or at least discomfort at having to apologize.

Weeks of working with her in the library had been another personal hell. She had to spend hours, alone, with a woman who knows exactly how beautiful she is and is an insufferable flirt. Cillian had tried, she really had, to stay somewhat detached. Friendship she could do, but anything beyond that was dangerous. But it didn’t take long for her resolve to absolutely crumble. Berdine was a Mord-Sith, true. But she was also intelligent, tenacious, loyal almost to a fault, and (most surprisingly) had a quick and wicked sense of humor. It had been odd, at first, listening to her and the others in the palace trade friendly quips and sometimes downright salacious lines. It was also disappointing, the first time Berdine gave her a wry smile and declared herself Rahl’s favorite. And the relief that followed learning it was an elaborate joke was both blessed and achingly unfair; she held no claim over Berdine’s affections or even attention.

The day before, it hit her hard. The sunlight streaming through the high windows in the library, softly illuminating Berdine as she slept; it set her hair and skin alight with gold. She looked as though Cana Cludhmor herself had created her, brought her to life, and gently place her on Cillian’s path. She almost didn’t wake her, she looked so at peace. That’s when Cillian knew she was gone; completely, hopelessly under Berdine’s power. She almost kissed her then, and almost again when she had Berdine backed against the wall. But she hadn’t wanted to push her luck.

It made sense now: the silence, the too-hard punch to the shoulder.

Cillian remembered her own struggles coming to terms with her attraction to women. While is wasn’t taboo in Cosmaine, it was still difficult being different.

She hadn’t been angry with Berdine, not really. She felt completely gutted, heartbroken at the rejection. She had left to go drown her heartache in cheap ale and Eli’s shepherd’s pie, barely able to talk Cass out of hunting Berdine down for a beating. It was her own fault, after all. She hadn’t understood the rules of testing and crossed a line. One she didn’t know if she could come back from.

But now?

She smiled in spite of herself. She’d been too shocked to do much but lie there when Berdine kissed her in the grass, like it was her first. But her brain had been burned blank by the raging fire and crackling electricity that coursed through her body at the brief contact. It was everything she had dreamed of and not enough. And then she was gone, running to gods knew where except away from her.

* * *  
After a long, uncomfortably tense day in the library, Cillian managed to corner Berdine away from the myriad of attendants and staff.

“Are we just going to pretend that yesterday didn’t happen?” She asked in a whisper.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Berdine hissed, slamming a book back into place on the shelf and moving to walk away.

“We have to talk about it,” Cillian whispered, stepping into Berdine’s path. “For fuck’s sake, Dina. You can’t show up at my _house_ , do _that_ , run away, and then expect me to not need a bit of clarification.”

Cillian forced herself to take slow, even breaths, counting as she did so, to keep a handle on her rising temper. The last thing either of them needed was a knock-down, drag-out fight in the middle of the palace library. And Cillian wasn’t entirely sure she’d win; she’d heard stories from Cara and Rikka, and made a conscious choice never to make Berdine angry.

Berdine seemed to shrink into herself, hugging her arms around herself and avoiding Cillian’s gaze.

“Okay,” Cillian said in a normal voice, scrubbing her hands over her face. “I understand, alright? It’s difficult, and terrifying, and the people here are detestably closed-minded. But we have to address this before I lose my gods-damned mind.”

“I can’t—we can’t—do this,” Berdine said in a small voice, still not looking at Cillian.

Cillian felt as though her blood had been replaced with ice and her limbs with lead.

“Alright,” she said slowly, barely able to keep hold of her rapidly spiraling emotions.

Berdine snapped her head up, visibly confused.

“You’re not going to argue?” Berdine asked.

“What is there to argue about?” Cillian asked back, shrugging and spreading her hands wide. “You said no, and I have to respect that.”

She watched several stages of confusion and an odd disappointment play out on Berdine’s face.

“What?” Cillian asked, growing wearier by the minute. “Were you wanting a fight? Want me to get angry, throw things, beg you to reconsider? You said no, I said ok. I don’t understand what you want from me, but at least things make a bit more sense now.”

“I’m sorry,” Berdine whispered, dropping her eyes again.

“Why are you apologizing?” Cillian asked more loudly than she had intended, frustration boiling over. “We’re adults. You can tell me no.”

“What do we do now?” Berdine asked after a long moment.

“That’s up to you,” Cillian said with a shrug, moving to retake her seat at the long work table. “We can be friends, if that’s what you want. I can leave and not come back—“

“I don’t want that,” Berdine said quietly, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Let me know when you figure out what you do want,” Cillian said, instantly regretting the hard, bitter edge to her tone. She grabbed her bag and stood to leave. “I have to go put my head back together.”

Without waiting for a reply, Cillian stepped out into the hall and headed toward the reception hall.

* * *

Cillian sat on a low wooden bench in the main room of her cottage, legs stretched in front of her, eyes trained on the ceiling and tracing the hard lines of the wide pine planks as her thoughts whirled and scattered in turns.

This had to be hell. The bastards she ran from had actually managed to kill her, and her soul was trapped in a painfully specific and oddly exquisite hell.

She turned her attention to Rooster, who had sidled up to rub against her legs, purring and chirruping for attention. Cillian scooped up the calico, gently scratching behind her ears and sighing heavily.

She let her head fall back, and for the first time in five years, she let herself cry.


	7. Ventures and Gains

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Rikka said around a mouthful of bread, using her spoon to gesture at Berdine. “But are all women like you this stupid?”

Rikka eyed Berdine over the time of her wine cup as she continued.

“‘ _You’ve yet to give chase_ ’?” She said emphatically and raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, what more invitation do you need? And you kiss her and _run away_? I can’t fault her for avoiding you.”

Berdine sullenly picked at her plate. The past few weeks had been absolutely miserable. She and Cillian had barely spoken, working in near total silence. Cillian had also taken to working in a far corner of the library, out of sight. She kept telling herself it was for the best, that it was better this way; there wasn’t any feasible way it could work, and she was still mourning. But she didn’t know how much longer she could keep it up. More often than not, Cillian sported fresh cuts, black eyes, and ugly bruises. She was obviously fighting more, but whether it was in an alley or ring, Berdine didn’t know.

“I panicked,” Berdine said finally, not looking up. “I had been trying so hard not to give in, but I did.”

“We are allowed to want things, now,” Rikka said gently, reaching across the small table to place a hand over Berdine’s. “Wanting doesn’t make you lesser. Feeling doesn’t make you lesser.”

“You don’t understand,” Berdine said, avoiding her gaze.

“You’re right,” Rikka said with a small shrug. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean you need to punish yourself for being human.”

Rikka squeezed Berdine’s hand, eyes growing kinder.

“You know in your heart of hearts that Raina would want you to live,” she said softly. “Want you to find happiness again. Being happy isn’t a betrayal.”

Berdine knew she was right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“I can’t fix this,” Berdine said quietly, not entirely trusting her voice.

“Have you tried?”

Berdine was silent.

“Just talk to her,” Rikka said, returning to her meal. “That’s all you can do.”

* * *

Berdine had taken three days to work up the nerve to confront Cillian, hating herself the entire time. She was Mord-Sith. She had fought men twice her size, brought down mages who could raise the dead, but one woman was able to shake her confidence to the core.

She started the day by moving from her usual work table to sit across from Cillian. They worked in strained silence, but Berdine felt some small comfort when Cillian made no move to leave.

“Can I ask you something?” Berdine asked apprehensively, bracing herself in anticipation of an angry reaction.

“Go ahead,” Cillian said flatly, not looking up from her book, quickly scrawling a note in her small, messy script. Her left hand and wrist were stained a deep grey from the charcoal pencil and quill ink she alternated between; the knuckles on both hands were scabbed and bruised.

“Are you angry with me?” Berdine asked quietly. She tried to swallow past the lump rising in her throat.

“No,” Cillian said, glancing up. “Should I be?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?” Cillian asked, setting down her pencil and sitting back in her chair. She wiped her hand and wrist with a cloth she kept nearby for cleaning off excess dust and ink.

“I hurt you,” Berdine said in a small voice, dropping her gaze to stare at a spot on the floor.

“Well,” Cillian said, taking a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie to you and say it didn’t hurt. But you said no, and I am going to respect that.”

“I didn’t want to tell you no,” Berdine said. She forced herself to look at Cillian, gnashing her teeth against the tears that threatened to fall.

Cillian drew her brows together in confusion, shaking her head.

“Then wh—“

“I watched my Raina die,” Berdine said through gritted teeth. She curled into herself, hunching her shoulders up and hugging herself tightly with crossed arms. She squeezed her eyes tight shut before continuing. “I watched her weaken, and waste, and die. And I—I still see her, hear her, everywhere. When I close my eyes, when I’m alone...”

She heard the scrape of Cillian’s chair against the stone floor, then felt herself being pulled up and into a tight hug. She realized she was crying, body shaking with each sob, muffling her pained screams with Cillian’s shoulder. She’d never said it out loud; now it all came crashing in at once. The pain, the desperate loneliness, memories, both good and bad.

That day played out over and over again in her mind, as fresh as ever. She could feel the warm sun, smell the damp, green grass, hear the rustle of chipmunks in the undergrowth as they darted out in search of food. Saw Raina’s gaunt, pale face weaving pain of death with a last thread of joy as she let out her last breaths as weak laughter and a strained “I love you.” Remembered how her eyes, dark and beautiful and never failed to make her fall in love all over again, grew dull as the light faded from them; grief and horror roared through her, ripping at her mind and heart, making her feel as though the earth would yawn wide beneath her feet and swallow her whole. The immediate aftermath full of desperate plans to end her own life, and intense shame at not being able to follow through with any of them.

The first night alone had been a sleepless hell. It took her weeks to fold up the blanket Raina had last used and left discarded on the floor at her side of the bed. Months more to let her Sisters ritually burn Raina’s brown and red leathers. She held onto the anger she felt when Lord Rahl took Raina’s agiel to wear around his neck, along with shame at being angry with him; it was an act of honor, veneration, but apart from the few trinkets Raina had acquired over the years, it was all she had left.

She didn’t know how long they stood, her sobbing and screaming, Cillian anchoring her. Eventually, she quieted, sobs mellowing into hiccups and hitched breathing. Bone-wrenching grief gave way to a throbbing headache and a soul-deep exhaustion.

She felt Cillian place a hand and her chin on her head, gently cradling her.

“I’m sorry,” Cillian said quietly.

All Berdine could do was let her eyes slide shut, the darkness taking the edge off of her headache.

“Lets get you sat down,” Cillian murmured, pulling away and leading Berdine to the large cushioned chairs arranged by the hearth. Once she was settled, she heard Cillian walk away, returning a moment later with the water ewer and a mug, pressing the cup into her hands. “Drink it slow. I’ll be right back. Will you be alright for a moment?”

Berdine nodded, drinking robotically. She felt as though someone had hollowed her out.

“Here,” Cillian said gently when she returned. She offered Berdine a small, dark brown lozenge. “Don’t bite down on it, it’ll break your teeth. But it should help with the throat irritation and settle your stomach.”

Berdine gave her a grateful look as she took the lozenge. Popping it in her mouth, she immediately pulled a face and nearly spit it out.

“That’s awful!” She said, finally looking at Cillian. “What did you give me?”

“Horehound,” Cillian said simply, pulling another chair around to sit directly across from her. “I know it’s not exactly...good. But trust me, it’ll help. It also helps with Terrors, believe it or not.”

Berdine continued to frown as she reluctantly tucked the bitter, medicinal tasting lozenge into her cheek.

“Terrors?” she asked around the lozenge.

“I don’t know what you’d call them,” Cillian said, leaning forward and pressing her palms together. “They aren’t quite visions, but when something happens and it makes you see, hear, smell, or feel things that happened to you before. Or that feeling you get when you’re really overwhelmed; the tight chest and panic that builds until you can’t take it.”

Berdine nodded. She knew that feeling well. And she was surprised to realize that she was finding it easier to stay present.

“I have some licorice root,” Cillian said, nodding her head towards her satchel. “Ginger, peppermint, some dried nettles. If the horehound doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.”

“How do you know all of this?” Berdine asked, taking a sip of water hoping to dull the acrid flavor that bloomed repeatedly in her mouth every time she moved the lozenge around.

“I told you I trained a bit as a Druid,” Cillian said. “I always carry a kit in case someone gets sick or hurt. I can’t read omens, but I can sew up wounds and midwife babies.”

Berdine laughed, a little too loud and a little too long.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “I shouldn’t laugh, but I cannot imagine you as a midwife.”

“I haven’t done it in years,” Cillian said, absently scratching at the scar on her throat. “But it’s a very spiritually satisfying experience most of the time.”

“What about the other times?” Berdine asked, genuinely curious and still trying to reconcile the Cillian she knew with the one she wished she did.

“That’s not something we need to talk about right now,” Cillian said with a rueful smile.

Berdine connected the dots and swallowed, not minding the horehound for once. She felt a familiar pull from inside her as she watched the dark look that quickly came and went from Cillian’s face.

“Have you ever talked about this with anyone before?” Cillian asked, slowly rubbing her palms together and lacing her fingers. “It might help if you do.”

Berdine shook her head, swallowing the last bit of the lozenge with a mouthful of water.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she said, turning to look into the low flames in the hearth.

“The beginning is usually best,” Cillian said with a small smile.

Berdine half heartedly slapped Cillian’s knee.

“You know what I meant,” she said without any real heat behind it.

“You set me up for that one,” Cillian said with a small laugh. “Need another lozenge?”

“No!” Berdine said a bit more forcefully than she meant to. “Do you have anything that doesn’t taste like the Keeper’s armpits?”

Cillian retrieved her satchel from the work table and rummaged around a minute, setting various items in her lap as she searched. Berdine recognized a few things: sinew and gut thread for sutures, linen dressings, a few medicinal herbs like mint and jewel weed.

Cillian produced a small, wooden box and slid open the top before handing Berdine a piece of candied ginger.

“This stuff always reminds me of Yule,” she said, popping a small piece into her own mouth and putting away her things. “It can be a bit hot, so I won’t be offended if you spit it out.”

The candied ginger was a much more welcome remedy. The citrusy, floral notes blooming with a touch of heat and sweetness did dredge up her own bittersweet memories of midwinter feasts. She nodded approvingly.

“I suppose I should talk a bit, yeah?” She asked, sitting back in her chair and considering her mug of water.

“Only if you want to,” Cillian said, spreading her hands wide. “But I honestly think it will help. I won’t make you talk about anything you’re not comfortable sharing.”

Berdine nodded as she took a deep breath. She started with halting sentences, unsure how and where to start. But it all eventually came tumbling out of her in torrents. She told Cillian almost everything. Her home and breaking. Finding and falling for Raina. The new and old Lord Rahls. The Plague. Darken Rahl’s abuses.

A sliver of fear worked its way into her chest as she watched Cillian’s face harden and twist with rage as she described what happened. The humiliation. The vicious, brutal assaults. Sexual torture that went on for days. She heard the frame of Cillian’s chair creak and groan in protest as Cillian gripped and pushed against the armrests as an outlet.

“Has Richard—“

“No,” Berdine said, shaking her head and cutting Cillian off. “He hasn’t and never would.”

“Good,” Cillian said, relaxing her grip but keeping her face set hard. “I’d hate to have to kill him.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I am,” Cillian said simply. “There’s only one way to deal with rapists, and it’s to send them back to whatever pit of hell they clawed their way out of.”

Cillian leaned forward, jaw muscles working as she gnashed her teeth, and lowered her voice dangerously.

“If anyone so much as touches you,” she said through clenched teeth. “I will hang him from the walls of the city with his own guts.”

Berdine was silent. She’d seen Cillian annoyed, even angry at times. But she had never witnessed this kind of seething, white-hot rage that radiated off of her. She didn’t doubt for one second that Cillian would make good on her oath if there ever was need.

“People like us have to help each other,” Cillian continued. “Stick together. Protect one another. Because if we don’t, this happens.”

She pointed to the scar circling her throat before pulling up the side of her shirt to indicate another ragged, puckered scar that ran the length of her ribs and then to the scar that ran from her right temple to her mouth.

“Three Keltish sheepfuckers caught me out one night and tried to kill me. One tried to cut my throat, but missed—“ she pointed to her face again. “And the others sucker punched me. Tossed a noose ‘round my neck and strung me up. The sawed-off fuck—“ she held out a hand to indicate how tall her attacker was. “Stuck me with a short sword. If my brothers Kieran and Little Darragh hadn’t shown up, my body would probably still be hanging there.”

Cillian sat back heavily, breathing hard.

“I’m not going to let it happen to anyone else,” she said after a moment.

And just as quickly as it came, the rage evaporated as Cillian heaved a weary sigh and threw up her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said, scrubbing a hand over her face. “I didn’t mean to get like that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Berdine said, leaning forward to place a hand on Cillian’s knee. “It’s good to know there’s someone I can count on.”

“Always,” Cillian said softly, taking her hand.

The two women continued to trade stories well into the night. It felt good, letting someone else in, Berdine thought as she laughed with Cillian as she shared stories from growing up in Cosmaine. She learned that Cillian spoke three languages: Goidelic (her native tongue), Common, and High D’Haran. She also played the lute.

“I never said I wasn’t educated,” Cillian said with a wry smile as she drank from her own water cup. “Ma and Old Nan saw to it.”

Berdine managed to pry more stories out of Cillian than she thought possible for anyone to know: myths, religious tales, trouble she and her brothers got into growing up.

“We lived so close to the Boundary,” Cillian said, eyes bright and gesticulating wildly with her hands. “We’d chuck rocks into it to see what happened.”

“You did not!” Berdine shouted, mildly horrified.

“Aye!” Cillian said, nodding and grinning. “There’s shite else to do. Never did figure out where they went.”

“You know the Boundary was part of the underworld, right?” Berdine asked slowly, briefly wondering how different her life would have been if they’d met then.

Cillian’s eyes went wide as she burst into laughter, wheezing and clutching at her stomach as she did.

“What is so funny?”

Cillian wheezed again, face going crimson as she laughed harder, trying to form words.

“Can you imagine?” she managed after a moment, laughing again. “There’s this great pile of rocks somewhere in the underworld. And the Keeper’s pure ragin ‘cause he don’t know where they came from.”

She broke down in laughter again before she adopted a low, growly voice.

“‘ _Right, you gobshites_ ,’” she said, imitating the Keeper. “‘ _Who put all these feckin rocks in m’bed_?’”

She absolutely dissolved into tears of laughter. And Berdine couldn’t help but join in. She _really_ hated when Rikka was right.

* * *

The pair walked side by side through the corridors leading from the library to Berdine’s rooms in a quieter section of the Confessor’s Palace. Berdine was close enough to feel the heat gently radiating from Cillian’s body and catch the faint scent of juniper and lavender from her clothes. The two chatted idly, with a careful easiness that came with ignoring a larger issue. The tension between the two women was palpable, building like a thunderhead.

They came to a stop once they reached the heavy, oaken door leading to Berdine’s rooms.

“Here we are,” Cillian said, her easy smile not quite matching the look in her eyes. “Got you home safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” Berdine replied, leaning with her back against the door, hand on the latch. “But you didn’t have to escort me. I don’t think anyone is going to attack me in the hallway.”

“I know,” Cillian said with half a shrug and taking a careful step forward. “But we were talking, and I didn’t want to be rude.”

Berdine bowed her head, hoping to hide the blush that had begun to bloom across her face, and worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Well,” she breathed, still avoiding Cillian’s gaze. “It’s late...I should head to bed.”

With you, she didn’t say.

She looked up, breath catching in her throat as her heart began to hammer in her chest. She watched the flickering light from the wall lamp make soft shadows dance across Cillian’s strong features. Her eyes burned with an intensity that made heat spike low in Berdine’s belly.

Berdine’s eyes dropped to Cillian’s lips, the heat in her belly pooling lower, making her head spin and heart pound impossibly harder in her chest.

Cillian stepped forward again, pressing her tall, muscled frame against Berdine. A hand came under her chin, tilting her gaze upward. Cillian closed the gap between them, placing a whisper soft kiss on her lips.

Berdine felt as though she’d been struck by lightning. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming, begging for more. She let out a shuddering sigh as Cillian’s lips pressed an impossibly gentle kiss on her jaw, just below her ear. Her legs felt weak and her head spun as Cillian stepped back, hand still cradling Berdine’s face.

“Goodnight, Dina,” Cillian whispered with a soft smile.

Berdine caught Cillian’s hand as she made to leave.

“Please,” she whispered, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Stay?”

Cillian swallowed hard as she nodded silently, allowing herself to be led inside.

* * *  
Berdine woke slowly, first becoming aware that she was entirely too warm and second, something heavy was draped across her. She opened her eyes, focusing on the early morning sun beams filtering through the drapes to softly illuminate the room. She tried to roll over, but was blocked; Cillian, still fully-dressed, was sprawled out across the bedspread, an arm wrapped around Berdine.

Berdine tried to move again, gently maneuvering under Cillian’s arm, but as soon as she placed a hand on her forearm, she cried out with surprise and disgust; Cillian was damp with sweat. As she yelled, Cillian violently jerked awake, automatically jumping up and out of bed, yelling as well.

“What!?” Cillian slurred, eyes half open and bleary. She swayed unsteadily as she raised a loose fist. “What th’fuck happened?”

“Why are you so sweaty?” Berdine asked, laughing.

Cillian raised a finger as she fought to keep her eyes open, swaying again.

“This is not my house,” she grumbled, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Are you alright?” Berdine asked, sitting up in the bed.

“Yeah,” Cillian said, yawning wide and tousling her damp hair with both her hands. “You scared me and I forgot where I was.”

She fell heavily back into the bed, laying crosswise and pinning Berdine’s feet under her shoulders.

“What were you asking me?” She said, blinking up at Berdine and yawning again.

“I asked you why you were so sweaty,” Berdine said, wiggling her feet to try and free them, but only getting a slightly irritated grunt from Cillian.

“I'm a human furnace,” Cillian said, closing her eyes and settling further into the mattress. “Especially when I sleep. Why are you so wiggly?”

“We have to get up!” Berdine said with a laugh, wiggling her feet again, managing to free them one at a time.

“Says who?” Cillian asked, throwing an arm over her eyes to block the sun.

“Lord Rahl,” Berdine answered as she got out of the bed.

“Lord Rahl can jump up his own ass,” Cillian grumbled, catching Berdine’s arm as she came around the foot of the bed, pulling her back down.

“I’m serious,” Berdine protested, but made no move to get up again.

“Oh yes,” Cillian said sarcastically, not opening her eyes and reaching out to rest her hand on Berdine’s hip. “You’re fighting me so hard on this. I simply _must_ surrender.”

Berdine playfully shoved Cillian’s shoulder, but immediately settled into the bedspread; she rolled onto her side to face Cillian, taking her in as sleep retook her. She supposed a few more minutes abed wouldn’t hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing bonds two idiot lesbians like over sharing their trauma


	8. Decisions and Revisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter to date and my first real attempt at writing intimacy, so take that for what it is.

Rikka boosted herself up onto the low wall next to Berdine, helping herself to a few of the green grapes from a wooden bowl resting between them.

“You didn’t give her enough of a workout last night if she’s got to be out here training with them,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth and nodding toward where Cillian, Ulic, and Egan rotated through several exercise stations on the palace guard training grounds.

The three made circuits with sets of pull-ups on a crossbar, lifting and carrying large stones, and loosing arrows at straw-and-wood targets. Cillian was dressed in a cobbled-together set of First File armor, minus the elbow blades, using the weight as extra resistance. Nicked and dented bracers glinted in the afternoon sun as she loosed a dozen arrows before dropping the heavy yew bow and dashing to slap a palm against another section of wall, and then to a large, spherical stone. She grunted with effort as she squatted and lifted it, carrying the stone ten paces before dropping it and jogging to the wooden frame holding the pull-up bar. She jumped, catching the bar and letting herself hang limply for a moment before starting her set. They’d been training for the better part of two hours, and Berdine could see that she was beginning to flag.

“Though, I have to say,” Rikka continued around another grape. “She does look good in D’Haran Red.”

Berdine hoped she’d be able to blame her flush on the harsh sun beating down on them.

“Nothing happened,” she said, pointedly not looking at Rikka.

“Sure,” Rikka said, cocking an eyebrow in challenge. “And I’m the queen of Galea.”

“ _Nothing..._ _happened_!” Berdine repeated emphatically, finally turning to look at Rikka. “We talked. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh,” Rikka said with a wry smile. She brought her hands up to her mouth and yelled. “Sledge!”

“What are you doing?” Berdine hissed, slapping Rikka’s arm.

“Sledge!” Rikka yelled again, ignoring Berdine.

Cillian dropped heavily from the pull-up bar, stumbling a bit as she landed. She half-jogged up to where the two Mord-Sith were sitting, flopping to the ground with a great thud and gasping for air.

“What...”she gasped, rolling onto her back in the shady grass. “What do you want? And don’t call me that.”

“Fine,” Rikka said with a dismissive wave. “What did you do last night?”

“I can tell you what I’m going to do right now,” Cillian said, gesturing vaguely. “I’m going to lie here and let The Morrígan take me. Just let Her swoop down and carry me to the land of death. Or vomit, whichever happens first—“ Cillian let her head roll to the side, looking up at the two Mord-Sith. “It’s no small wonder D’Harans took over the world twice if you train like this.”

“I am telling you, Rikka—“

“I want to hear it from her,” Rikka said, cutting off Berdine.

“Why so interested?” Cillian asked, still lying flat on the grass. “Afraid you’ve missed out on something?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well,” Cillian said, sitting upright with a great groan. Her Cosmaine accent more pronounced with her growing annoyance. “I hafta ask why yer sittin’ here, practically foamin’ at the mouth an’ t’inkin about what I might be gettin up to at night. Because, I hate to hafta say it in front of other folk, but I just don’t like ye like that, lass.”

“No, that’s not—“

“I mean,” Cillian continued, cutting Rikka off. “I’m not blind, but I jus’ don’t fancy ye. It’s nothin’ personal, mind.”

Berdine adopted a wry smile of her own as she watched Rikka’s face go through several stages of confusion and then angry resignation. She glanced down at Cillian, who was now beginning to have difficulty keeping a straight face; The corners of Cillian’s mouth twitched every so often, trying to keep from laughing.

Rikka hopped down from her perch, hands raised in defeat as she silently made her way back towards the doors leading to the palace interior.

“You are awful,” Berdine said with a laugh when Rikka was out of earshot. She watched Cillian rise slowly to her feet, grimacing against sore and tired muscles as she limped her way to the wall.

“That’s what she gets for bein a nosey shite,” Cillian said, returning to her usual, lighter Cosmaine accent. She grunted in pain as she boosted herself onto the wall top.

She plucked a few of the remaining grapes from the bunch and tossed one into her mouth before speaking again.

“I can now say I understand why D’Harans tend to be a cranky lot,” she said, eating another grape and pulling at the neck of her borrowed cuirass. “I am sweating like a whore at temple in this.”

Berdine threw her head back as she laughed.

“Better sweaty than dead, I suppose,” Berdine said, still smiling.

“Depends on who you ask,” Cillian said, leaning back and stretching.

“Rikka was right though,” Berdine said, watching the muscles of Cillian’s arms and shoulders flex as she stretched. “You _do_ look good in D’Haran Red.”

“I didn’t figure you took to me for my rapier wit or wellborn charms,” Cillian said with a teasing smile and wink

“Wit, you have in spades,” Berdine said, feeling her face heat. “As for charms, those have yet to be seen.”

“It’s nice to finally be able to talk to somebody who understands. You’d think that in a city this big, there’d be a fair few brave enough to at least just talk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever tried talking with a man about a woman you’ve taken a liking to?” Cillian asked.

“Once,” Berdine admitted, remembering her conversation with Lord Rahl in the belly of the Wizard’s Keep.

“And I bet it was a terrible, awkward time.”

“It was, yes,” Berdine said, looking down.

“They just don’t understand,” Cillian continued. “They’re incredibly reductive. It’s as though all they see are tits and ass. Which, don’t get me wrong, are all well and good, but that’s like saying a house is just a roof and door.”

“Women are houses?” Berdine asked with a teasing smile.

“Women are a gift from the gods that we do not deserve,” Cillian said matter-of-factly. “But yes, a house is a good analogy. Each is made differently, has a different history. Needs different care. And you have to find the one that works best for you in the moment while also giving you plenty of room to grow into.”

“That’s...actually a very nice way to put it,” Berdine said thoughtfully.

“Not bad for an idiot stonecutter, right?”

“You’re not an idiot,” Berdine said fondly.

“Oh, I know quite a few people who would disagree with you,” Cillian said with a laugh. “Myself chief among them.”

“You shouldn’t say that about yourself.”

Cillian gave no reply.

“If women are houses,” Berdine said after a few long moments. “How would you describe yourself.

“Haunted,” Cillian said, laughing. “Just a big, dilapidated barn full of angry ghosts...and probably a lot of spiders.”

“What about me?”

Cillian rested her elbow in the opposite palm, tapping her chin with a finger as she considered Berdine.

“A very quaint country cottage which is still under construction and in need of a mason.”

“How...specific.”

Cillian simply shrugged.

“At least now I know who to call upon if I’m ever in need of a mason,” Berdine said with a challenging smirk.

“Why do you think they call me ‘sledge’?”

Berdine’s face flushed crimson as Cillian laughed, hopping down and waving over her shoulder as she walked away from the Mord-Sith to change and bathe.

* * *  
The weeks stretched into months and were plagued with a tumultuous mix of emotions for Berdine. On the one hand, she was slowly understanding the true depth of her feelings for Cillian. It was more than infatuation, and much stronger than passing lust like she had first tried to convince herself it was. She found herself looking forward to seeing Cillian, even if they had to try and focus on work, at least she could be near her. On the other, she couldn’t shake the last vestiges of her guilt. Rikka was right: Raina would want her to live as full a life as she could, find some semblance of peace and joy again. But there was still a small voice in her head that insisted she run, push Cillian away and pull back into her old shell of isolation and bitter, heartsick agony. It persisted, especially if she were alone in her rooms at the end of the day. But she resolutely brushed it aside. And coupled with the mounting threat of the Imperial Order and prolonged absence of Lord Rahl, she continually felt strung-out and exhausted. But being with Cillian, away from the palace and tucked away in their own little space, she could pretend for a night or two that the world made sense.

She often let herself get lost in simple pleasures when she stayed with Cillian in the little cottage she had built for herself far enough from the noise of the city to feel charming in its own way, but still close enough to civilization to not feel isolated. She would perch on a rail or stone section of the wall surrounding the small garden and work yard, contenting herself to bask in the relative silence and peace. She would let the sound of wind in the grass and trees or the soft clucking of the hens calm her whirlwind mind; she would also busy herself with the half-dozen garden beds that ran along the back wall, tending the various herbs, berries, and vegetables that Cillian grew for food and remedies. She had known a few uses for things like mint, lavender, and jewel weed for settling stomachs, calming nerves, and soothing stings, but Cillian had been teaching her much more than she had thought possible. A paste of garlic and honey bound with clean linens treated with beeswax would stave off infection from a cut or animal bite. A distilled tincture of clove and feverfew numbed tooth pain before extractions or skin before suturing a wound. A rag soaked in plain, white vinegar would take the sting from a sunburn even if it did leave you smelling like a pickle. She had learned the hard way that the tiny, angry-red peppers were cultivated for their intense, blistering heat and used in treatments for stomach and intestinal ailments as well as flushing parasites from the body and even defensive applications; Berdine took extra care to avoid that particular cluster of plants.

While she pulled errant weeds and practiced identifying plants by sight and smell, she would often think of how pleasurable a quiet, simple life would be. She felt a strange sadness and longing for a life that could be or might have been if she had been born elsewhere, earlier or later, or had managed to evade the notice of Darken Rahl. While even as a young girl she had never considered herself the domestic sort, she would play out soft, tranquil fantasies of dark winter nights tucked in close to Cillian under heavy furs or by a roaring fire. Summer afternoons splashing and swimming in streams. Brisk spring mornings and autumnal evenings preparing ground for planting or wintering. Her heart often ached as it was torn between her pride of place as Mord-Sith, an educated and powerful woman in a world designed and built by men, and her growing desire to build a new sort of life for herself. One free of the horrors of war.

As with friendship, Cillian had an affinity for physical touch when she wanted to show affection. Everything from quick, chaste kisses and lingering hugs to wandering hands that she hated herself for stopping short; it wasn’t that she didn’t want Cillian to go further, to take her to bed and have her way with her. She craved it, dreamed of it during the now-rare nights when she slept alone. But vulnerability had never been her strongsuit, and what was more vulnerable than surrendering yourself to someone else? Berdine had been most surprised to learn that it wasn’t just when they were alone; Cillian linked their arms or took her hand as they walked the streets of Aydindril, pressing warm kisses to her knuckles or temple. The boldness of it all both thrilled and terrified Berdine.

“ _I’ll not hide who and what I am_ ,” Cillian had said when Berdine confided her fears. “ _I never have, and I don’t intend to start now_.”

She again found herself in Cillian’s house, as she had many times before after long days in the palace library convincing themselves that they were concentrating on their work more than they were on each other. She almost preferred the neat, practical, well-kept cottage on the outskirts of Aydindril to the lavish-in-comparison rooms she occupied in the palace. The main room featured a large cooking hearth along the back wall, a long table with benches, and a few cushioned chairs built from small logs stripped of bark and oiled to a shine, highlighting the grain. There was a small pantry for dried herbs, root vegetables, smoked meats, and a few jars of preserves and pickled vegetables, and two doors: one leading out into the walled yard and another leading to a simply, but comfortably furnished bedroom.

Berdine sat cross-legged on the bed, petting Rooster who was curled up next to her, purring contentedly. She’d taken quickly to the calico cat, making her small toys from found and gathered items and sneaking her bites of meat from her plate when she thought Cillian wasn’t looking.

“Don’t look now,” she said as Cillian came through the bedroom door. “But I have another woman in bed with me.”

“As long as Rooster is alive,” Cillian said, gently picking up the cat and putting her out in the main room. “I have resigned myself to being The Other Woman.”

Berdine stood to slip her arms around Cillian’s waist, giving her a small, soft smile. She reached one hand up to run her fingers though Cillian’s hair, relishing at how soft and smooth it always felt. Cillian closed her eyes and hummed contentedly at the gentle contact. Berdine slipped her other hand under them hem of Cillian’s shirt, slowly tracing abstract shapes over warm, soft skin and hard muscles.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Berdine whispered, smile turning a touch sad.

“You showed up,” Cillian said softly, pulling Berdine close to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You didn’t have to do anything else.”

Berdine wrapped her arms around Cillian’s shoulders, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What’s wrong, little one?” Cillian asked softly, resting her hands on the flare of Berdine’s hips, thumbs tracing slow, lazy arcs on her skin.

Berdine gave a small smile, in spite of herself.

“What did you really think of me when you saw me that night?” She asked in a small voice.

Cillian chuckled, the sound low and warm. It reminded Berdine of the distant thunder of summer storms on the Azerith Plains.

“Since when are you one to care what others think of you?” Cillian asked with a crooked grin.

“I care what you think,” Berdine said, softly, not meeting her eyes.

“Do you really want to know?”

Berdine nodded, not fully trusting herself to speak.

Cillian ran her hands up and down Berdine’s sides, coming to rest on the small of her back. Calloused fingertips slipped under the hem of the linen shirt Berdine had borrowed to trace slow lines, sending a shiver down her spine and making her a little weak at the knees.

“Well, I thought ‘ _oh no, I’m in trouble_ ,’ because three Mord-Sith walked into the tavern on fight night,” Cillian said, hands continuing their ministrations. “Then ‘ _oh no, I’m in trouble_ ’ again because I caught you staring. More than once, I might add.”

Berdine gave another small smile as a blush bloomed across her face.

“I can hardly be blamed for that,” Berdine said, quietly. She slid her hands down Cillian’s shoulders and arms, giving her biceps an appreciative squeeze before traveling across her unbound breasts beneath her own shirt and down her stomach.

Cillian hummed and gave Berdine a hooded gaze that made her breath hitch.

“It really wasn’t fair, was it?” Cillian asked, voice taking on a husky quality that she saved just for Berdine. “You getting to see me practically half naked without so much as an introduction, and you getting to sit there in the library and tease me for _months_ in your leather.”

“You like my leathers?” Berdine asked, genuinely surprised and filing that information away for later. She briefly wondered if Cillian would like her in white.

“How can I not?” Cillian asked with a wry smile. “They leave both too much and not enough to the imagination. And I thoroughly believe that you, being the obnoxious flirt that you are—“ Cillian pulled into Berdine’s hips to emphasize her point. “Take great delight in vexing me as much as possible.”

“Well,” Berdine said, dropping her own voice low and letting a smile spread like molasses in deep winter across her face as they played their familiar game. “You are entirely too easy to vex. And I do enjoy seeing how far you’ll let me string you along.”

Berdine was hit with a strong sense of deja vu as Cillian slowly backed her up against the wall, pressing her tall, muscular frame to Berdine’s and wedging a knee between her legs. A familiar, wicked and crooked grin appeared as Cillian took Berdine’s wrists and pinned them above her head with strong hands. Berdine leaned her head back against the wall, sliding her eyes closed as a breathy moan escaped her and her entire body throbbed in time with her pounding pulse.

“Oh,” Cillian said with surprise, cocking an eyebrow and grin turning absolutely ravenous.

Berdine whined as she arched her back, hips failing to find purchase as they rolled forward.

“Tell me, _acushla_ ,” Cillian said, leaning in even closer to whisper in Berdine’s ear. “When did you first think of taking me as your lover?”

“Do you really want to know?” Berdine breathed, letting out another drawn out moan as she pressed herself into her lover.

“Do tell.”

“Since I first laid eyes on you,” she whispered, turning her head to press hot, needy kisses down what little of Cillian’s neck and shoulder she could reach.

Cillian hummed, the sound rumbling though both of them and making Berdine bite her lip.

“I probably would have let you if you’d asked,” she muttered, releasing Berdine’s wrists to trail her hands down her sides to grip her hips.

Though free, Berdine kept her hands above her head. She licked her lips and swallowed hard.

“I’m asking now.”

“Are you sure?” Cillian asked, pulling back to look at Berdine. The heat in her eyes had cooled to a slow smolder, but ready to ignite at a word. “I don’t want to push you to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

Berdine gave a laugh like velvet, heart full to bursting knowing that Cillian, her sweet and handsome beloved, always took the time to ensure she was ok; that boundaries weren’t being crossed. She finally lowered her hands to grab fistfuls of Cillian’s shirt. She pulled her lover close again, bringing her mouth close to her ear.

“Oh, _Bärchen_ ,” Berdine said using an old, High D’Haran endearment. She released Cillian’s shirt to push her away and run her hands down her own body. She smirked to herself as she watched Cillian’s eyes darken as they followed her hands. “If you don’t, I’ll do it myself and make you watch.”

Cillian lunged, grabbing the backs of Berdine’s thighs and lifting her up in a single, smooth motion before pressing her back against the wall again. Her torso pressed against Berdine’s center, and Berdine wrapped her legs around Cillian’s waist, pulling them even closer together.

“Even you aren’t that mean,” Cillian muttered, gripping Berdine’s hips and giving her a positively wicked grin.

They pulled each other into a series of searing, bruising kisses. Berdine gasped and bucked her hips as Cillian slid her hands up her sides to drag her fingertips firmly down and across her stomach. She dropped her head back, exposing her throat which Cillian immediately dove into with teeth and lips, leaving marks that would bloom into deep bruises in the morning, earning her a low, satisfied moan.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” Cillian breathed, touches shifting from starving and possessive to a tentative reverence.

Berdine’s stomach bottomed out, liquid heat pooling in her core, making her grind against Cillian’s stomach and her back arch. She pulled back to see Cillian’s soft, awe-struck smile.

Berdine’s mind went blank as she let out a nervous, disbelieving laugh. She knew she was beautiful, knew her body turned heads of men and women alike, but to hear it from Cillian...

“I’m serious,” Cillian said, brushing her fingertips along the underside of Berdine’s breasts beneath her shirt. “You are a goddess, and you should be absolutely _worshipped_.”

“Keep talking,” was all that Berdine could muster, drinking in the praise like desert sand soaking up water.

“Do you know what my favorite part of you is?” Cillian asked, voice husky, hands continuing to roam over Berdine’s body.

“A few things come to mind,” Berdine said, pulling Cillian’s face to her breasts.

Cillian hummed appreciatively, slowly drawing back.

“As nice as those are,” she said, hungry eyes raking over Berdine. “That’s not it. Houses and doors, yeah?”

“Tell me,” Berdine breathed, heart hammering in her chest.

“Here,” Cillian said simply, hands coming to rest on Berdine’s waist, just above the flare of her hips. “I love that.”

“Why?” Berdine asked, surprised, but genuinely curious.

Cillian let out a low, husky laugh that shot straight to Berdine’s core.

“You’ve got hips like honey and honestly expect me to not want a taste?”

“Gods,” Berdine breathed, hips going still and eyes sliding shut as she snaked her arms around Cillian’s shoulders to pull her impossibly closer. Her head was spinning from Cillian’s words and hands, and knowing that their skin was separated by just a few layers of rough linen. She took a deep, steadying breath. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, tracing abstract shapes on the back of Cillian’s neck. “You’re going to make me come undone and you haven’t even gotten me out of my clothes”

Her breath hitched and heart stuttered as she watched Cillian’s gaze turn heated, pupils blowing wide.

“Well,” Cillian said, voice low and gravelly, rumbling in a way Berdine could feel with her whole body. “That’s no fun, is it?”

“It could be,” Berdine purred, pulling up the hem of Cillian’s shirt.

“Why do I always have to be the one laid bare?” Cillian asked, gently taking Berdine by the wrists and holding them wide.

Berdine gave a small tug, testing Cillian’s grip; Cillian released her, leaving Berdine with mixed feelings of relief and disappointment. They’d have to talk about that later.

“You’ve seen me shirtless plenty of times,” Cillian continued, taking one of Berdine’s collar laces between her thumb and index finger. “I think it’s your turn.”

Cillian carried her to the bed, sitting on the edge. A wicked, hungry grin spread across Cillian’s face as she slid her hands up Berdine’s sides, bringing the shirt up with them. She paused, looking up at Berdine, silently asking for permission to continue.

Berdine nodded, watching with building ecstasy as Cillian trailed open mouthed kisses across her stomach before removing her shirt and throwing it across the room. Cillian’s hands began their slow, agonizing journey over Berdine’s body. They traced the curve of her hips and waist, thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts as they came to rest on her shoulders.

Cillian whispered something in her native tongue that Berdine didn’t understand.

Berdine made to pull her close, but Cillian resisted, repeating the words.

“In Common, please,” Berdine teased.

“I said ‘ _hold on_ ,’” Cillian breathed, eyes raking hungrily over her lover’s now-exposed torso. “Let me look at you.”

Berdine felt both a swelling sense of self-satisfaction and somehow more naked under her lover’s intense gaze.

Cillian reached up to undo Berdine’s braid, letting the her soft, brown hair cascade over her shoulders and down her back; warm hands gently massaged her scalp, easing the ache from the braid. She caught and held Berdine’s gaze; heated, naked want, awe, and not a small amount of tender affection blazed in her green-grey eyes, making Berdine cross her arms and curl in on herself in the face of the intensity.

Cillian gently unfolded Berdine’s arms, pressing warm, gentle kisses to her knuckles.

“Thank you,” Cillian said in a whisper.

“For what?”

“Trusting me.”

Berdine’s heart stuttered as she swallowed thickly. She could feel Cillian’s rapid heartbeat hammering in time with her own. She watched Cillian raise her hands, fingers trembling, and tentatively brush against Berdine’s collarbones to trail down her chest, stopping just short of the swell of her breasts. She watched Cillian swallow hard, training her eyes on the pulsing vein in her lover’s neck.

Cillian said something that sounded suspiciously like a curse in lilting, throaty Goidelic before raising her eyes to look at Berdine.

“Is this ok?” She asked in a hoarse whisper, switching back to Common.

Berdine gave no answer but to take Cillian’s wrists and place her warm, slightly rough hands fully onto her breasts.

Cillian finally broke, groaning as she slid her eyes closed and leaned forward pressing her forehead to Berdine’s shoulder. Gooseflesh bloomed down Berdine’s body as she felt Cillian’s hot, labored breaths against her skin.

“If you’re going to touch me,” Berdine said, her own mind reeling from the contact. “Touch me. I’m not made of glass.”

“I know,” Cillian breathed, not looking up. “I don’t want to rush you.”

Berdine let out an incredulous laugh.

“If you go any slower, we’ll be here til dawn.”

“We will be anyway,” Cillian said, dropping her hands to wrap her arms around Berdine’s waist. She pulled her lover close, pressing soft, careful kisses across Berdine’s chest and shoulders. “You are so impatient.”

“I am not,” Berdine muttered, leaning into the affection.

Berdine could feel Cillian’s low chuckle rumbling through her body, sending a spike of liquid fire to her core.

“You are,” Cillian said. Berdine could hear the smug grin in her voice. “Which is just going to make this more fun because I—“

Cillian tangled a hand in Berdine’s now-loose hair, making a loose fist and gently coaxing her head back to expose her throat once again. Her other hand dragged down Berdine’s front before snaking around behind to cup her ass and pull her closer.

Berdine’s world rose and spun as she felt her back hit the mattress. She gasped and bucked her hips as she felt Cillian press her hips into her, holding her body inches above Berdine’s with powerful arms.

“Am absolutely going to take my time with you.”

_Oh._

Cillian leaned in, giving Berdine a deep, slow kiss. Berdine’s entire body burned with a desperate need, head spinning as she tried to catch her breath when her lover pulled away.

“Let me take care of you,” Cillian whispered, shifting her weight to one arm, bringing a hand up to caress Berdine’s face. “Please?”

Berdine could only nod, teetering between wanting to completely give herself over and terror at being so vulnerable.

Cillian sat up on her knees and peeled off her shirt in a single motion before lowering herself back down. Berdine automatically slid her hands up Cillian’s back, relishing the feeling each time thick muscles corded and tensed under her palms. She’d seen her lover shirtless multiple times between the occasional prize fight, training with Ulic and Egan, and Cillian’s general dislike of shirts when in her own home. But it was never like this. Her entire body thrilled as Cillian’s heated, soft skin made contact with her; she groaned when Cillian jogged her hips forward, causing her own breasts, smaller than Berdine’s but well-shaped, to swing pendulous and heavy. Her mouth watered, making her swallow back a moan as Cillian’s mouth and hands began their torturous descent down her body.

She arched her back, throwing her head to the side and stifling a loud moan with her fist as Cillian’s tongue laved over a nipple, followed by the soft graze of teeth. Cillian switched sides to repeat the process, dragging a hand down Berdine’s side and across her stomach; her thumb just barely slid beneath the waistband of Berdine’s leather trousers, causing another spike of heat that made her core throb with need. Cillian’s hand made its way back up to gently knead Berdine’s breast.

Lips, teeth, tongue, and hands continued their journey down, stopping to explore and tease every area that earned a gasp, moan, or affirmation. Berdine felt Cillian stop just above her hips and looked down to see her lover between her legs, gazing back with a ravenous glint in her eyes. Cillian rushed back up to capture Berdine’s mouth in a hot, savage kiss.

“Tell me what you want,” Cillian said, voice hoarse and raspy again.

“You know what I want,” Berdine panted, rolling her hips upward.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“I need you,” Berdine said through clenched teeth. “To fuck me until I say you can stop.”

“Oh?” Cillian said, cocking an eyebrow as a devilish smile spread across her face. “And how do you want me to do that?”

“You can start by finding a better use for that flippant tongue of yours,” Berdine said, placing a hand on top of Cillian’s head, lightly pushing down, hoping her lover would get the hint. She only met resistance.

Cillian laughed, a light, small sound.

“It’s cute that you think you’re intimidating,” she said, smile turning smug and self-satisfied.

“You’re about to see how intimidating I can be,” Berdine said, rolling her hips again and hoping she didn’t sound as whiny as she felt.

Strong fingers dragged down Berdine’s stomach. She gasped sharply, thrusting her hips up off the bed as she felt Cillian press a hand between her thighs.

“Is that so?,” Cillian asked, voice going deep and husky as she pressed again, drawing another low moan from Berdine. “Personally, I think you’re just a brat who wants to make me work for it. Which is going to make it that much more satisfying when I absolutely _ruin_ you.”

Berdine couldn’t think, not with Cillian’s hand where it was. Not with her talking _like that_.

Cillian lowered her face to Berdine’s pelvis, raking teeth and tongue over her hip bones. Berdine then felt cool air hit her thighs as Cillian deftly pulled her leather trousers and small clothes off at once.

She heard Cillian swear again in Goidelic and felt the bed shift. She raised her head to see Cillian kneeling on the floor beside the bed.

“What are you—“ she yelped in surprise as Cillian pulled her to the edge of the bed, throwing a leg over each of her shoulders.

More liquid heat pooled between her legs as strong hands gripped her hips and Cillian kissed the insides of her thighs. She rolled her body as Cillian’s hands roved, caressing her curves, smoothing over her flat stomach, kneading her breasts.

Her vision swam and narrowed as she moaned Cillian’s name. Suddenly, she let out a sharp gasp as Cillian slowly ran her tongue over her clit. It was gentle and languid at first, quickly growing determined, focused on a singular purpose. Her tongue expertly circled, flicked, and laved the sensitive bundle of nerves, making Berdine slowly come apart under her.

Berdine felt her climax building in her stomach, coiling tightly like a spring. Just when she was on the edge, Cillian stopped. She sobbed and thrust her hips in frustration, seeking the release she desperately needed.

The bed shifted again as Cillian lay beside her, sliding one arm under her head and the other down her body. It was Cillian’s turn to moan as she slid her fingers through Berdine’s slick.

Cillian began speaking in Goidelic again, voice low in the way Berdine loved. Berdine only caught her name, but her lover’s tone, the whispered reverence punctuated with deeply passionate kisses that stole her breath away and expert hands drawing her ever closer to the edge, gave her an idea of what was being said.

She clutched and clawed at Cillian as if the waves of her own passion and pleasure would sweep her away to flail and drown, leaving her bashed and broken against some distant shore. Strong arms held her, flexing, cradling, sheltering.

Suddenly, and without warning, her vision went white, mind going blank, body arching and shuddering violently as her climax tore through her. Wave after wave washed over her as she screamed her lover’s name. Cillian worked her through, bringing her to crest and break again and again until Berdine tapped her shoulder, letting her know she was done.

She lay in Cillian’s embrace, spent and sated, legs and arms leaden, breathing heavily. She felt the bed shift, and almost came to tears as she felt the warmth of Cillian’s body disappear. It returned shortly as Cillian draped a blanket over her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pressing soft, soothing kisses to her forehead, neck, and shoulders.

“You ok?” Cillian whispered, pulling Berdine closer.

“I just,” Berdine panted, licking her lips. “I need a minute. Then I can—“

“Don’t worry about me” Cillian said softly, kissing Berdine’s shoulder again.

“But—“

“Don’t worry about me,” Cillian repeated with a small smile.

Berdine finally managed to make her body cooperate, turning her head to look at Cillian. Her chest bloomed with a soft, comforting warmth as she took in Cillian’s sleepy smile, candle and lamplight reflecting and dancing in her eyes, making them take on a slightly golden hue. She weakly reached up to brush a strand of honey blonde hair off Cillian’s forehead, earning her a low, happy hum.

“I hope it was ok for you,” she said softly, capturing Berdine’s hand and pressing kisses to each of her fingertips.

Berdine gave an incredulous laugh.

“If that was just ok, I don’t think I could survive anything better.”

“Oh, acushla,” Cillian said with a small smile. “I can always be better.”

“I’ll be here any time you want to practice,” Berdine said with a quiet laugh, rolling heavily to her side to tuck herself into her lover’s body.

She awoke the next day to find herself still wrapped up in Cillian’s arms and a tangle of blankets. The mid morning sun streamed through a gap in the curtains, softly illuminating the bedchamber. She contented herself with watching motes of dust lazily dance in the beams of light and listening to the slow, steady breathing of her still-sleeping lover.

She stretched, carefully so as not to wake Cillian, delighting in the dull ache in her hips and legs. A smile and flush graced her face as lazy, liquid heat bloomed in her core as memories of the night before flooded her senses. The rest of the night had been filled much slower and gentler, but still fiercely passionate, lovemaking; and while Berdine would have loved nothing more than to push her and her lover’s stamina to its furthest limits, her own body and libido were woefully out of practice.

And for all that she gave, and give she did, Cillian had been reluctant to let Berdine return the affection. That was something they’d have to discuss another time.

Cillian stirred next to her, sucking in a deep breath and groaning slightly as she came awake.

“Hey you,” she croaked, eyes heavily hooded and voice thick and raspy with sleep.

“Hey yourself,” Berdine said with a coy smile, turning in Cillian’s arms to face her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mmm,” Berdine hummed, smile turning fond and warm, raising a hand to trace a finger lightly down Cillian’s squared, scarred jawline. “Like I could spend the rest of my life right here, with you.”

“Here, specifically?” Cillian asked, carding her fingers through Berdine’s thick, soft hair.

“Have anywhere else in mind?”

“No,” Cillian said, continuing to play with Berdine’s hair. “But I might at some point.”

Berdine allowed herself a brief moment to envision the two of them, lying abed in a home they’d built together. Far from the busy streets and grand palaces of Aydindril and D’Hara. She felt an ache in her heart like never before. She placed a gentle hand on the back of Cillian’s head, pulling her into a slow, soft kiss; one she tried to put all of her deepest feelings, all of the things she had never been quite able to say or even fully understand.

“I love you,” she whispered as she pressed her forehead to Cillian’s.

“I love you, Dina,” Cillian whispered back, pulling her into a tight embrace. She chuckled softly.

“What?”

“Made you say it first,” Cillian said with a crooked smile, earning her a playful jab to the ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent entirely too much time researching Irish and German pet names.


	9. Roots That Clutch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize the the wait. This month has been hell. Two family members have Covid, and we lost my wife’s grandfather last week (not to Covid, but an ongoing health issue). Plus, I’d written, deleted, and rewritten this chapter about a dozen times. But I think I finally found a groove for it.

Berdine urged her dappled mare into a faster gallop, digging the hard heels of her boots into he horse’s flanks and silently praying to whatever gods were listening that she could make it to Cillian in time.

Cillian had left Aydindril first when the order to evacuate came down from Lord Rahl, traveling with Rikka, Prelate Verna, and a group of refugees. The plan was to get the refugees to a military camp, meet up with Berdine, and then set off for the People’s Palace. But Verna had written a dire warning in the Journey Book she had given Berdine, describing reports of Imperial Order troops closing in on the camp. That morning, another message made Berdine’s blood run cold: scouts had been captured, and a plan to attack the camp had been uncovered but the date was still unknown as the scouts had mysteriously died while in custody.

Berdine smelled smoke and heard the clashing of swords, shields, and armor before she crested the final ridge. The camp was chaos: D’Haran and Aydindril Home Guard soldiers alike were desperately trying to push back the black and grey clad Imperial Order legion. The camp soldiers were outnumbered and had been taken by surprise, fighting in half armor if they had any on at all. Civilians had gathered in the center of the camp with pack animals to protect supplies and people alike. 

The telltale signs of magic could be seen occasionally. Bouts of flame, bolts of lightning, and concussive waves burst in various locations, marking the odd battle mage or Sister of the Light who had ended up in the camp. Berdine pulled her mount to a short stop, surveying the scene and planning her entrance into the fray when she spotted an odd-looking figure moving through the mass of soldiers. 

A tall figure, cloaked in black and wielding a heavy, jewel-topped staff was valiantly holding off a hand of Imperial Order soldiers, whirling the staff to block sword strikes and letting off small bolts of magic energy to blast multiple enemies at once. Suddenly, the figure slammed the staff into the ground, causing a mass of grasping, thorny vines to erupt and envelope the Imperial Order soldiers, piercing unarmored flesh. The figure seemed to shimmer for a moment before disappearing and reappearing in another section of the camp.

Berdine once again dug her heels into her mare and took off down the ridge. She drew her agiel, letting the pain that shot up her arm fuel her fury. As she slammed into the outer ring of soldiers, she let loose with a series of jabs and hard blows, dropping soldiers in a cacophony of blood and pained screams. Her mare reared, shredding a man who blocked their path with her front hooves, and Berdine used the opportunity to slide from the saddle and drop into a fighting stance. She detached herself from the din of battle and press of bodies, letting the magic take over, guiding her movements. She moved through the soldiers like a river around rocks, side stepping errant sword swings, blocking ones meant for her and counterattacking, never wasting an ounce of energy on unnecessary movement. Hot blood splattered across her face and body, almost invisible against the crimson leather. 

She stumbled into a lull in the fighting, once again spotting the black-cloaked figure. As they spun, driving the butt of their staff into the stomach of an opponent, Berdine faltered and gasped. It was Cillian.

Her eyes were heavily kohled, strange markings covered her face and arms. The intricate silver thread running through the cloak caught the late afternoon sun, making the cloak look like a field of stars. The staff was topped with a large piece of black tourmaline and fitted with a wicked-looking and gore-slicked bronze spike on the butt-end. Her eyes, usually the color of forest moss and plains grasses were entirely white, filled with a shifting pearlescent cloud of magic. Cillian dropped to one knee, driving the staff spike into the soft earth as she couched it like a lance, taking aim at a cluster of enemies. An intensely loud crack of thunder sounded as a concussive wave blasted the handful of Imperial Order swordsmen backwards; Armor and flesh alike peeled away from their bodies in the wake of the blast.

Cillian was up in a flash, symbols on her arms glinting and shifting as she whirled around. She locked eyes with Berdine and dashed forward, jabbing Berdine in the chest with two outstretched fingers. Berdine immediately felt a warmth flow over her from head to toe before it was replaced with an odd tingling sensation under her skin. 

“What did you do to me?” She asked, shouting to be heard over the noise of battle.

“It’s a shield!” Cillian shouted back, taking up a defensive position behind Berdine. “Leather’s only good for so much!”

Berdine was inundated with an overwhelming mix of emotions. Elation that Cillian was alive and thus far unharmed. Awe and confusion at witnessing her lover wield what looked like powerful magic. And abject terror at knowing the only thing between them both and death was their wits and a shield spell.

“What’s the plan?” Berdine shouted over her shoulder, raising her agiel to take on an enemy who tried to rush her.

“Don’t die!” Cillian bellowed, spinning to avoid a sword slash and sending a bolt of light into the churned earth to spray dirt into her opponent’s face.

Cillian clapped a hand on the back of her opponent’s neck, muttering. His eyes took on the same, shifting milky whiteness hers had. Berdine watched in both astonishment and terror as the man took up his sword and began attacking the nearest Imperial Order soldier. Cillian then sprinted toward Berdine, linking their arms.

A crack of light formed in front of them, seeming to split the very fabric of reality. Berdine’s stomach and world lurched as Cillian dragged her through and dumped them out in another area of camp. She stumbled as she fought to keep from retching, feeling Cillian’s strong grip on her wrist as she was pulled once again into battle.

And on the fighting raged, well into the night. The only light came from the half moon hanging in the sky, burning tents, and the increasingly infrequent columns of flame that Cillian and other magic users sent forth to block and incinerate attackers.

Cillian wasn’t built for stamina, Berdine knew. But she didn’t know how Cillian’s gift worked, how much power she had or how many spells she could fire off before it was depleted. Cold terror gripped her heart as she watched Cillian sway and stumble, breathing hard as she flagged. Blood, gore, and sweat streaked Cillian’s face, arms, cloak, and legs, obfuscating the symbols and giving her a wild, savage look that would have, perhaps, been strangely attractive if they weren’t fighting for their lives.

It was close to dawn; the sky to the east was beginning to brighten from inky black to a deep, iron grey. The pre-dawn murkiness mingled with the still-burning wreckage, casting what was left of the camp in an eerie light. The fighting had mostly died down, the D’Haran and Aydindril troops managing to defend their camp and drive back the invading force. But not without taking heavy casualties; the civilian refugees were especially hard-hit. Without training or proper weapons, once the Imperial Order troops pushed to the center, the refugees that couldn’t run were viciously cut down.

Cillian leaned heavily on her staff, breathing hard and grimacing. Though in rage or pain, Berdine didn’t know. Her eyes had returned to their usual green-grey, her gift having been exhausted some hours ago, forcing her to rely on brute strength and pit fight training to finish off the stragglers. Finally, Cillian straightened and began slowly making her way back through the camp, stepping over bodies.

“Dina?” she called through the darkness, stopping to lean again on her staff. “Dina!”

“I’m here,” Berdine said once she had come to stand next to Cillian. She gasped.

In the dim light, she saw Cillian’s shirt was soaked with blood. A rip revealed a long gash across her ribs, forming a cross with the old sword strike scar. It wasn’t bleeding freely, but oozed dangerously; dried blood clotting and caking on her skin and shirt.

“Don’t look at that,” Cillian said through gritted teeth, drawing her now blood-and-dirt stained and tattered cloak over the wound. “I need you to find Verna and any officers who may be left—“

“You need a healer,” Berdine said, cutting off Cillian. “You’ve lost so much blood.”

“I am a healer,” Cillian said, closing her eyes as she swayed on her feet. “Which is why I need you to help me. Find Verna and surviving officers, round up able bodied survivors to search for wounded. We have to set up a tent—“

“You are in no state to do anything!” Berdine said firmly, placing her hands in Cillian’s shoulders to steady her. “You’re on death’s door!”

“I’ve been damn near dead, love,” Cillian said with a soft chuckle. “Yes—“ she held up a hand to stop Berdine who had opened her mouth to protest. “I’m tired. And yes, I’m wounded. But I’ll live. There are some that won’t if you keep arguing with me.”

Berdine let her hands drop and squeezed her eyes shut. Visions she thought she’d long beaten back were swarming in her mind. Hanging by the wrists in chains. The look in her father’s eyes as he forgave her just before she killed him. Raina...

“Dina,” Cillian said gently, placing a hand on Berdine’s arm. “I’ll be alright. I promise. I healed what I could before the last of my energy gave out.”

Berdine gritted her teeth and let out a deep sigh. She swallowed hard before opening her eyes. She drew her brows together in frustration at herself, but her expression faltered when Cillian laughed weakly again.

“You know,” Cillian said, dropping her hand to grip the Rowan wood staff, small smile morphing into a grimace against the pain. “You really are cute when you’re trying to be intimidating.”

Berdine smiled in spite of herself and the worry churning in her gut.

“There are those who would disagree with you,” Berdine said, letting Cillian drape an arm over her shoulders as they picked their way through the demolished camp.

“Yes, well,” Cillian said, grunting as she stepped over a particularly bulky dead body. “You don’t much scare me.”

The sun was well above the horizon by the time they had located Verna and a handful of officers whole and awake enough to organize a party to gather the wounded and set up a field hospital. It took Berdine until midday to finally convince Cillian to rest, to leave the care of the wounded and burial of the dead to others. She managed to get Cillian to lie on a bedroll in a tent she had hastily put up on the edge of the destroyed camp, helping to wash away the worst of the gore with a rag and bucket of water.

“You don’t have t’do that,” Cillian slurred, slipping into a heavy Cosmaine accent in her exhaustion. “I can do it if ye give me a second.”

“You can barely sit up,” Berdine scolded, wringing out pink-tinged water from the rag. “If you can take a sword slash and live, it certainly won’t kill you to let me clean you up.”

“Where—“ Cillian started, grimacing in pain as she tried to prop herself up on her elbows. She fell back to the ground with a thud and muffled grunt as her arms gave out. “Where’s m’bag? I hafta bind it before it opens back up.”

Spirits only knew where that satchel got to. And no one had the time or energy to look.

“It’s gone,” Berdine said, gently scrubbing blood and grease paint from Cillian’s arm. 

“O’course,” Cillian grumbled, gently probing the flesh around the gash. “I shoulda...well, there’s nothin’ doin’ now. At least m’insides are where they should be, yeah?”

Berdine was silent. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the wound, so she busied herself with gently wiping kohl and blood from Cillian’s neck and face.

“We’ll hafta cauterize it,” Cillian said almost absently, gripping the neck of her shirt and weakly pulling.

Berdine reached down and tugged at the neckline, ripping open Cillian’s blood soaked shirt to reveal ugly bruising, angry rashes from sliding on the rocky ground, and telltale signs of broken ribs.

“Spirits,” Berdine breathed, tears stinging her eyes. She reached out with trembling hands, quickly drawing them back when Cillian drew a sharp breath through gritted teeth at the contact. “What did they do to you?”

“Lucky slice,” Cillian said, pointing to the gash. “One big fuck had a war hammer, and tha’ hurt like pure hell. Uhh...” she looked down over her beaten and bruised torso, indicating a line of puncture wounds that wrapped around her waist. “Got caught in me own vines, there, like a shit-brained fool. And th’rest I don’t rightly remember.”

“How are you not dead?” Berdine asked, gently dabbing at the caked and dried blood surrounding the gash. It still wept and oozed. 

“Paradise don’t want me, and hell won’t have me,” Cillian said with a laugh. “And my idiot self having enough wherewithal to save a bit o’magic for meself. Otherwise, I’d have give up th’ghost by now. And that wouldn’t do. I got plans.”

Cillian laughed again, grimacing against the pain.

“You’ll have to let me in on those plans,” Berdine said, voice thick with unshed tears.

“Get me closed up, love, and I’ll tell ye,” Cillian said, gesturing vaguely.

“Will you be alright while I find a smith?” Berdine asked, making to stand. She stopped when Cillian clapped a hand to her forearm, grip surprisingly still firm, and shook her head.

“No time, love” Cillian said, swallowing. “You’ll hafta do it.”

“No,” Berdine pleaded, shaking her head and letting tears finally fall. “No.”

“Dina,” Cillian said, locking eyes with her. “Iron will take too long. I wouldn’t ask if I thought I could hold out.”

“Rikka—“

“There’s not enough time,” Cillian repeated, more firmly. “Gods know where she is in this mess. You’d be better off building my cairn than waste time lookin.”

“I can’t,” Berdine whispered, shaking her head and sinking back on her heels. “I can’t hurt you like that.”

“I forgive you in advance,” Cillian said with a small smile. “And you can forgive me, or yell at me, later for not saving enough power to fully heal myself.”

Berdine reluctantly drew her agiel, sharp, hot pain shooting up her arm and down her spine. She bit back a sob as she helped Cillian roll onto her mostly uninjured side and placed a leather gauntlet in her mouth to bite down on against the pain. Cillian took a few steadying breaths before nodding that she was ready.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Berdine rammed the tip of her agiel into the wound. The sound of Cillian’s barely muffled screams, sizzling flesh, and Berdine’s own sobbing apologiesand pleas for forgiveness mingled into a single, awful note. Cillian clawed and clutched painfully at Berdine’s arms as the agiel moved down the gash, burning flesh and sealing blood vessels as it went. Her eyes then rolled back in her head, body going limp and heavy in Berdine’s arms. Berdine said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods were listening; if Cillian was unconscious, at least she couldn’t feel the pain.

When she was finished, Berdine slammed her agiel home in its holster, cutting off the constant agony and capping her rising anger. She felt filthy, ashamed. Cillian had been right, there was no time for another option, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She checked Cillian’s pulse and breathing, nearly sobbing in relief that her lover was still alive. She waited a few moments, composing herself before waking Cillian.

“Zzit done?” Cillian said, groggily looking down at her torso.

“It’s done, Bärchen,” Berdine whispered, taking Cillian’s hand in both of hers.

“Good,” Cillian said, letting her head drop back into the bedroll. “I don’t wanna hafta do that again. That—“ she waggled a finger at the roof of the tent. “Was not fun.”

Cillian slept off and on for three days, and all the while, Berdine barely left their shared tent. She thoroughly cleaned her crimson leathers, scrubbing blood from Cillian and Imperial Order soldiers from every stitch. She searched fruitlessly for Cillian’s satchel; it was gone. Whether it was destroyed, stolen, or lost, no one could say. 

When Cillian finally awoke on the fourth day, she immediately set about mending the worst of her injuries. Berdine watched in fascinated silence as Cillian’s hands glowed, moving over half-healed wounds, stitching flesh and bone alike to leave behind angry red scars and deep bruising. When Cillian was satisfied with her work, she made her way to the field hospital, laying hands on the worst of the wounded; she set and mended broken bones, closed deep gashes, and burned away festering infections. Her abilities quickly faltered though, unable to keep up with her own needs and the sheer number of soldiers and civilians who had been injured in the attack.

She had felt such an overwhelming surge of affection and respect watching Cillian move among the hundreds of beds, offering not only healing magic and medicine, but kind words and hope. She also felt a very powerful pull of strange emotions as she watched Cillian tend to the last patient before her gift was exhausted.

Cillian had crouched down next to a cot where a boy of perhaps fifteen summers lay with a broken leg and a hand lost to an Imperial Order Sword. She had commended his bravery in defending his family as she cleaned and bandaged his wrist stump, hands shimmering as she stemmed the still-oozing blood and dulled pain with a bit of magic. 

“Better a hand than your head,” she said gently as she finished. “You might find someone to fashion you a replacement. A nice one of fine wood and steel. And—“ she placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing him close as if to speak in confidence. “I hear tell that girls quite fancy scars and heroic stories.”

Berdine had to stifle a laugh as Cillian winked at the boy. 

“Do they?” the boy asked, cradling his injured arm. He looked both hopeful and yet thoroughly unconvinced. Berdine supposed that was fair; Cillian had scars aplenty, but was still whole and able bodied.

“Ask her,” Cillian said, turning to Berdine with a look that Berdine knew all too well. “Scars can be quite dashing, don’t you agree?”

“I prefer the stories, actually,” Berdine said with a wry smile, not rising to the bait. 

“See?” Cillian said, turning back to the boy. “I told you.”

Berdine did laugh a little as the boy turned as red as her leathers, trying and failing not to ogle. 

“Make sure you eat,” Cillian said, standing. “And drink plenty of water. You need to keep your body fed so it can heal properly. Bodies are like fires, they need fuel to burn strong and bright.”

Berdine slipped a hand into Cillian’s as they exited the hospital tent. Seeing Cillian’s rapidly darkening expression, she made them stop.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“He—“ Cillian closed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose as the words caught in her throat. She dropped her hand with a heavy sigh. “He’s not much younger than my brother, Darragh. He shouldn’t be here. He should — he should be...”

“I know,” Berdine said softly, placing a hand to Cillian’s cheek. “But he’s alive, and that’s all that matters right now.”

Cillian was silent, dropping Berdine’s hand and sinking to her knees in the cold mud. She held a hand tight to the fresh scar, pressing down to alleviate the worst of the lingering pain and to brace against the sobs that racked her still-broken body.

* * *

“You need to rest,” Berdine scolded that night as they lay in their shared tent. “You can’t keep pushing yourself like this.”

“I can’t do nothing, either,” Cillian said simply, shrugging. “Not in good conscience, anyway.”

“I’m not saying you have to sit by,” Berdine said, scooting closer to drape an arm around Cillian. “But you’re going to make yourself sick. Or worse.”

In the dim lantern light, Berdine could see Cillian wrestling with conflicting thoughts. Cillian had spent the better part of the dayignoring her own need for food and rest. Along with healing what wounded she could care for, Cillian helped prepare bodies for burial, and recited generic spiritual pleas for gods and spirits alike to welcome the newly-dead home. She had taken extra care to make sure families, spouses, children and parents were buried together; she’d tasked several lower ranking officers with meticulously documenting the names of civilians and soldiers alike and dispatching messengers to next of kin. It was grim work, and Berdine well understood why Cillian had traded her staff for a hammer even before being forced out of Cosmaine.

“You’re not saving anything for yourself,” Berdine said quietly, gripping Cillian’s shirt. “Yes, you’ve healed yourself. But that doesn’t mean you’ve recovered.”

Cillian rolled onto her back, heaving a sigh and pulling Berdine close. 

“You won’t believe me if I tell you I’m perfectly fine, will you?” Cillian asked quietly.

“No,” Berdine said, settling closer. She touched a finger to Cillian’s chin, turning her head to face her. “Because you’re a bad liar, for one thing. And you know I’m right, for another.”

Cillian gave Berdine a small half smile. Berdine caught the scent of whiskey from the hospital tent, campfire smoke, and lightning. Magic always smelled like lightning; beautiful, destructive, terrible, addictive. Cillian’s multitude of cuts and bruises were beginning to take on a sickly, yellowish hue around the edges, dark circles ringed her eyes, marking her physical, mental, and magical exhaustion. She looked like she’d been dragged through seven kinds of hell, and Berdine felt herself falling all over again. 

It had been a marvel, wonderful and terrifying, to watch Cillian cut through swaths of enemies with all manner of elemental magic. She’d never seen anyone wield a gift that bent the earth itself to their will. Magic that tore at the very fabric of reality, burned away a person’s mind, and called forth demons from the underworld, yes. But to see someone harness and use the raw power of the elements was new. Watching vines and rock spikes erupt from the ground to impale and ensure enemies, liquid fire and chain lightning tear through ranks, and blasts of thunder and shards of ice peel flesh from bone was both an exciting show of raw power and strength and a terrifying display of a class of magic that was completely foreign to Berdine. 

Wreathed in black and silver, covered in strange writing and blood, Cillian had looked like an ancient wraith as she blinked in and out of skirmishes to distract and confuse attackers. An ethereal goddess of the plains and mountains as she called forth gale winds and turned men’s minds. Eyes clouded with the gift, magic shifting and swirling, made Berdine feel as though she were witnessing divine wrath being wrought against an enemy foolish enough to provoke it. It was beautiful. And she was  hers . The thought that someone as wonderful, beautiful and powerful, both physically and magically, as Cillian loved her was enough to made her downright giddy.

“You usually are,” Cillian said softly, pulling Berdine from her recollections and carding her hand through Berdine’s hair. 

“And yet you still refuse to listen,” Berdine said with a teasing smile.

“I don’t listen to anyone,” Cillian said with a laugh. “Ask my ma.”

“Have you ever thought about going back home?” Berdine asked after a moment.

“There’s not much for me there anymore, if I’m being honest,” Cillian said sadly. “Family, sure, but other than that, I don’t think I’d be very happy there.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve made my life elsewhere.”

“Aydindril?”

“With you.”

Cillian had said it so simply and plainly, like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was, and Berdine had been too wrapped up in both the war effort and her own foolishness to notice. Or, perhaps Cillian was simply being a Romantic: building up their relationship in her mind as something much deeper and more profound than it was.

Except that it was profound, Berdine realized with a small start. She loved Cillian dearly, yes, and the aftermath of the camp raid was a true test of her devotion. She’d barely slept or eaten, and rarely left Cillian’s side as she slept fitfully and feverishly for agonizingly long hours of the day and night. She’d prayed, in earnest. Something she hadn’t done since before she was taken. The Creator and Spirits has failed her too many times for her to place her trust in them again, so she tentatively reached out to the pantheon of gods and goddesses that Cillian worshipped and revered, or at least grudgingly respected. The Morrígan was the only one she remembered by name. The Phantom Queen, goddess of war and death and Cillian’s chief patron. She desperately pleaded with the foreign goddess, watching Cillian’s labored breathing as her broken and battered body tried to heal itself, begging Her to pass Cillian by. To stay her hand. And it seemed, for once, a prayer was answered as Cillian continued to improve over the coming days. The thought of almost losing yet another lover, even in the glory of battle, tore at Berdine’s heart and soul. She wasn’t sure if she were strong enough to bear that pain again, walk the land alone again. 

“What’s the catch?” Berdine asked, sitting up.

“For what?” Cillian asked back, propping herself up on an elbow.

“For you,” Berdine said, waving a hand at Cillian. “There is no possible way for you to be the way you are without something else going on.”

“I mean, I was fairly straightforward about being an idiot,” Cillian said with a half shrug. “I have a whole host of new scars to prove it now.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Berdine said, shaking her head. “There has to be something. Because sometimes I think you’re too good to be true.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious, Dina,” Cillian said, sitting up fully to face Berdine.

“I am,” Berdine said firmly. “I’m a Mord-Sith. We don’t get to be happy like this. And I certainly don’t deserve someone like you.”

“It’s not about deserving,” Cillian said, taking Berdine’s hands in hers. “If it were, you’d have someone much better than me.”

“There isn’t anyone better than you.”

“Oh, there are plenty of folk out there better than me,” Cillian said with a faint, sad smile. “I’m just the lucky one you decided to tolerate.”

“It’s not tolerating,” Berdine protested. “I love you, and I love that you can tell me stories for hours. And I love how much you care about people, even ones you’ve never met before. You’re so patient and kind, and...I just don’t want this to end.”

“Well, about that,” Cillian said, nervously scratching at the scar under her jaw. “There is one small catch.”

“What?” Berdine asked in a hoarse whisper, stomach sinking and heart ready to break.

“You’re going to have to marry me at some point.”

**Author's Note:**

> Berdine was the first explicitly lesbian character I had come across in any work of fiction, let alone high-fantasy. And she was an integral part of my journey to self-acceptance and coming out. But on second and third read-throughs of the series, I realized Goodkind did a downright shit job of portraying her relationship with Raina, her self-esteem and identity, and other characters' reaction to her identity. My soft-femme, academic lesbian baby child deserves better.


End file.
